


Breathing

by Tea221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sleep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea221b/pseuds/Tea221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach Fall. John still struggles to come to terms with "the incident" even years after the fact. Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breathing

A few months after the funeral, John was on his way home from the shopping one Thursday night. He absent-mindedly sent a text to Sherlock: **I bought more of that strawberry jam you're fond of. JW** It wasn't until the message was marked Sent that he remembered. His lungs twisted painfully, squeezing the air out of him and maliciously refusing to draw in more for a long moment. He nearly dropped the grocery bag on the sidewalk when his hand began trembling. He allowed himself half a minute to give in to these feelings of bitter sorrow and realisation before letting out a self-deprecating huff of air. "Bloody idiot," he mumbled, though whether it was directed toward himself or someone currently absent, he couldn't be sure.

Though John didn't like to think of the time he had texted Sherlock on his way home after…the _fall_ , he did manage to observe that the text went through. It wasn't denied with a Failed Delivery, at any rate. There was of course the possibility that the number had already been taken up by someone else, someone who simply didn't reply to his message. Another possibility was that Mycroft was keeping the number frozen and perhaps even checking Sherlock's messages himself. To think that Mycroft was prying in this matter was embarrassing, yes, but the off-chance that John's messages got to either of the Holmes brothers was enough to encourage an intentional one: **Supposed to be a meteor shower this week. JW** Though Mycroft's abysmal mistake concerning Sherlock still make John grit his teeth in anger, he recalled Sherlock often hinting that the man was terribly lonely. Entertaining the thought that Mycroft may be reading in too, John updated them later that week for the stellar show. Once the message had sent, John gave in to a genuine chuckle, imagining that once the text was received, Sherlock would of course roll his eyes and give one of his long sighs because _really, John, who cares?_ and that Mycroft would perhaps let slip a small smirk, but that all three of them would be sharing the same view. **Look up. JW**

John had set himself to taking up Sherlock's slack. Just until the man got back, of course. This meant strengthening ties with Lestrade. The first crime scene John had visited after Sherlock's…disappearance was unfortunately contaminated with Anderson's blood after the infuriating sod had made a snide remark about the great detective. Two days later, a raccoon-eyed Anderson had quickly slipped out of Lestrade's office upon seeing John, still nursing a broken nose. Since then, John hadn't heard a word about Sherlock from any of the officers. Though John had learned quickly enough to refrain from mentioning Sherlock in the present tense, it was still hard to watch his word-choice around Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Anytime he slipped up, Lestrade would give him one of those pitying looks, the kind that said, "You poor delusional man. Have you been skipping your therapy sessions again?" Mrs Hudson would eventually have to excuse herself, choking on a sob and hurrying from the room.

It wouldn't do to have them push more therapy or medication on him, which is why he never told anyone about the hallucinations. Sometimes, he'd see Sherlock in the flat, sprawled out on the sofa or tinkering about in the kitchen. But by the time John's breath hitched, the vision would be gone. On three separate occasions, he could swear he heard the distinct sound of Sherlock's bedroom door clicking shut, but when he peeked in, Sherlock was predictably missing and the dust had not been disturbed. The worst by far however, were the times John would catch a glimpse of blue, Sherlock's blue, or a mop of familiar dark curls in the busy crowds of London. John's chest would always constrict painfully and the air would rush from his lungs. His stomach would become lead and a terrible numbness would follow him for days. It would be so easy to just agree with everyone else, claim that he'd been wrong to hold out hope, that yes, Sherlock was d…

Awful thing, hope is.

There was always a tangible void. The cases John took alongside Lestrade were challenging, and though John's deduction skills were sharper than when he'd first met Sherlock – and stronger than Lestrade's – they still paled to Sherlock's brilliance. It was nice to have a goal though, and John aimed to make Sherlock proud.

Any time there was even the whisper of Moriarty's name in a case, John hunted suspects like a demon, demanding information and killing the madman's followers without remorse. In two instances, Lestrade and company had been present for the shoot-out. Unfortunately, they served more as a distraction than reinforcement, and John had wound up hurt. Breaking his wrist the first go and during the second, taking a bullet to the thigh in tackling an oblivious officer out of the crosshairs. **Got shot today. Again. I'm fine. JW** John had to begrudgingly admit he was getting older. He was sure he'd aged years in the time it took Sherlock to fall, a fast-forwarding of all the time between them stolen by gravity and cruel pavement. But now that his once psychosomatic limp was quite real, John indeed felt like an old man. This of course did not stop him from tearing apart Moriarty's spider web, one man at a time.

**Took out another. JW**

When the police ran dry on sources, which was insufferably often, and John's skills weren't enough, he turned again to his phone in hopes that one of the Holmes brothers was reading in. **Look for Timothy Odell. JW**

It wouldn't do to sit idle, though. John was always on the hunt, and Sherlock's homeless network was only too eager to help him "avenge" their brilliant employer. John received many tips and impromptu tours of the lesser known routes of London from this helpful crowd. **Got another. JW**

A predictably short time passed before John was able to send another text worth celebrating over. **I see Timothy Odell's been handled. Good work. JW**

John stared at the violin. He'd taken to occasionally plucking at the strings but he was nowhere near Sherlock's level.

As usual.

The Stradivarius was silent now, sitting in Sherlock's chair, propped against the arm rest. The telly was off and the kettle was cold. John had been alone now for two years, three-hundred and sixty days, fourteen hours and nine minutes.

John glanced at his watch. Correction: _ten_ minutes. He sighed, tracking the second hand's rhythmic ticking with tired eyes. The watch had been a gift from Sherlock. John had spied it in a shop window on one of their leisurely strolls – a stroll which of course had turned into a heart-thumping chase after a criminal through alleyways, ending at the Tube. Concerned citizens had nearly jumped John for tackling the "innocent businessman" who claimed to only want to board the blue line. It wasn't until Sherlock flashed Lestrade's police ID that everyone calmed down.

John could easily recall Sherlock's triumphant grin and it brought a small smile to John's cracked lips. That infuriating, loveable man. Ever since that incident, John was sure to wear his trainers tightly-laced, whether or not Sherlock used the word "leisurely." The next day, John had still been jittery with residual adrenaline, breaking into broad grins whenever he caught Sherlock's bright gaze. After his shower, he had stepped into the kitchen to find Sherlock absent, but a mug of hot tea and a small patterned box placed in the relatively clean space on the table before his seat. He sat down gratefully and sipped quietly at his tea until he couldn't ignore the tug of curiosity any longer. With the apprehension of possibly finding a severed thumb or something equally grotesque, he slowly lifted the lid of the small box to reveal the watch he'd wanted nestled in blue velvet – Sherlock's blue.

2y360d15h22m

John liked to believe his faith in Sherlock's continued existence was unshakable, but there was only so much hoping and waiting one man could do. There were good and bad days, and on those dark days John feared the worst – that everything everyone tried so hard to convince him of was true. But Mycroft and Molly never seemed to hesitate to reassure him, and in the depths of their eyes, John could see _something._ So while John was afraid that he had simply been left out of Sherlock's loop _again_ – something he'd come to expect since their first case – there were times John's conviction was so strong he couldn't believe there were ever days he doubted. Just as John never failed to defend Sherlock's reputation, his brilliance – why couldn't they bloody see through Moriarty's lies? – he never failed to hold onto the hope that Sherlock would once again grace 221B with his smirk, his laugh, his music, his brooding, his experiments, his…

At first, it had been hard to come home every day and still be able to smell Sherlock; he was everywhere. Then, as time passed, it became difficult to come home because it _didn't_ smell like him. Sherlock was fading away. His undisturbed possessions looked more like props now and it was near impossible to imagine Sherlock had only just popped off for a coffee, or to meet with someone from the Network.

Sometimes the waiting got to be too much. Ever the respectable soldier, John continued to faithfully man his post. After two years of work, however, there was noticeably less to do as far as Moriarty's ring was concerned. The men under Moriarty's influence were either dead, behind bars or simply hiding in countries John wasn't interested in visiting but in which Mycroft had many eyes. He was back to being the man he was before meeting Sherlock; the useless cripple that people either tolerated or pitied. It had been quite some time since he properly laughed, or ate for that matter – Mrs Hudson was always on him about that. Though he wasn't sure he was truly as "skeletal" as she claimed, he hadn't been able to look himself in the mirror for about a year now, afraid to see the broken man he knew he was. "Look what I've become without you."

2y360d16h3m

"At this rate, I won't even make it to your anniversary," John mumbled to himself as he pushed open his bedroom door. His eyes darted over to his nightstand, where his service pistol was tucked neatly into the top drawer. He supposed deep down, maybe it was finally time to let go. Without even so much as a word from Sherlock all this time, perhaps…waiting wasn't the answer anymore. "To everyone else, this is all so simple, isn't it? Saying you're really de…gone. Maybe I _have_ been foolish."

Still, it was hard to shake the feeling that something would happen soon; though that anticipation could simply be the bullet that was awaiting him. Who was he to keep it waiting? Wasn't it about time he got some rest? More rest than the fitful sleeps he had at the flat, jumping at noises that could have been Sherlock returning but were more likely alley cats. A dreamless sleep, one free from the haunting pale visage of his bloodied friend, eyes open but unseeing.

John shuddered. He switched his table light off and waited for his eyes to adjust to the feeble moonlight that filtered through the overcast night. He deftly reached into his nightstand and retrieved his gun. He held it for a moment, warming the cool metal with steady hands. Sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall, John waited. No immediate thoughts came to him – this wasn't a game of pros and cons. He only felt numb, though not even that inspired frustration or fear in him like it once did.

He flicked the safety off. Still numb.

Gradually, he lifted the muzzle to his temple, hoping that this definitive action might finally spark some feeling of dread or sorrow, maybe even anger at himself or the rational part of his brain to default to self-preservation and give him _something_ to hang on to.

Nothing.

Not even the thought of poor Mrs Hudson finding him breathless and cold, blood and a full metal jacket decorating his bedroom wall was enough to give him pause.

"It's fine then." He let the gun drop to his lap, grabbing his mobile. The screen lit up his face an ethereal blue as he typed in a final message. **Goodbye, Sherlock. JW** The screen declared the message Sent and he neatly set the mobile on the nightstand. He considered taking off his watch but decided to leave it on; he wanted at least this one last comfort.

He took up the gun again and leveled it at his temple. One final breath. He let his eyes slip shut and caressed the trigger. He fired.


	2. Ghost

The gun clicked.

Empty.

Confused, John hesitated a second. He was sure death would have been more exciting than this and that it definitely would have been louder, considering his method. He lowered the gun and checked the magazine to find it empty. Odd that he hadn’t noticed the difference in weight, and odder still that he hadn’t reloaded it after his last run-in with London’s abundant criminals. He dug in the nightstand for his spare clip and fixed it into place. Once again, he returned the barrel to its familiar spot against his temple. He cleared his throat and steeled himself. His finger moved to edge the trigger guard when a sharp _knock-knock_ sounded from his window, followed by, “John!”

John spun around to find the image of Sherlock pressed against his window, clinging gracelessly to the windowsill. He lowered the handgun minutely and smirked wryly. “Really? Is this all I can afford myself as a deterrent?”

Apparition-Sherlock’s eyebrows were drawn together in confusion. He recovered quickly however, and rapped sharply on the glass again. “John, do open up! It’s rather cold out tonight.” His voice sounded strained and tinny beyond the window, not at all like John used to remember. He was resigned to knowing he had forgotten Sherlock’s drawling baritone.

Sighing, the ex-soldier set the gun on his bedspread and stood. “Might as well humour my imagination in my final moments.” He chose to ignore the sharp clench his heart gave at the thought of Sherlock suffering in the cold; spectre or not, John would not allow Sherlock to suffer if he could prevent it. He unlatched his window and pulled the panes in toward himself, losing his breath as the chilled night air rushed in to greet him. He stared silently at his friend, taking in the details his mind had managed to recreate: Sherlock’s pale skin, dark hair and bright eyes which were currently narrowed in annoyance.

“A little help, then, John?” Sherlock huffed.

John chuckled softly, smiling fondly at the detective. His voice was clearer now, and more like he used to remember. He was dismayed to find he had nearly forgotten what Sherlock sounded like.

Sherlock tried to lift himself up but only succeeded to lose his grip. His face momentarily betrayed his panic as he began to slip and John instinctually reached out to grab him, knowing in the back of his mind that this would end the dream; to touch something that wasn’t truly there would shock his senses back to reality.

When John’s fingers clasped around Sherlock’s very solid wrist, he gasped and jumped back as though jolted off a livewire. His sharp movements managed to pull Sherlock farther into the room and the lanky detective was now splayed in the window frame, draped like a wet towel over the sill. He gracelessly fell to the floor in a heap and made a disapproving noise against the stained wood. John openly stared with his jaw hanging slack as Sherlock righted himself.

“You… You’re…” He eased forward, hand outstretched and trembling.

Sherlock suddenly sprang to his feet, “John! You locked my window.”

John dropped his hand and his head struggled to reboot. “…W-what?”

“The window was locked, and I was afraid I wouldn’t get here in time. I also noticed you started dusting again – that would have made things easier, had the window _not been locked_.”

“Wh… No, I…” John cleared his throat which was suddenly far too dry. He shook his head, “I haven’t been able to go into your room for…for a while now. Mrs Hudson—”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Sherlock replied quickly before taking a step farther into the room.

“Wait!” John stumbled back as Sherlock approached him, and Sherlock froze immediately. John’s eyes darted about the room anxiously; he still wasn’t convinced this was entirely real, and if it wasn’t, he feared he wouldn’t have the determination to lift the gun again. His self-preservation would have won out, but at what cost?

“John,” Sherlock murmured, easing forward again, body taut in preparation for John to bolt. “It’s alright.”

John’s eyes snapped back to Sherlock and watched his cautious advance. He screwed his eyes shut as Sherlock reached for him, fully expecting to open his eyes to find himself alone once again. Instead, he let out a choked sob when Sherlock’s warm palm found the side of his cheek. His heart came to a skittering halt for the third time in his life. The first had been on the battlefield, the moment he realised the very first soldier he tried so desperately to patch up had bled out on him. The second of course, had occurred during what now appears to have been a stunt Sherlock pulled, free-falling toward cold concrete. John opened his eyes and stared up at Sherlock through the distortion of tears. He blinked and Sherlock came into sharp focus, but the detective’s eyebrows and lips slowly dipped in sorrow.

“It’s alright, John.”

With that simple statement, John’s heart kick-started fiercely and the ex-soldier threw his arms around Sherlock, bringing the other man closer. He wiped the doomsday clock in his mind completely clean and restarted it as something beautiful: One minute with Sherlock. He cried unashamedly, clutching Sherlock tightly. His heart twisted again when Sherlock relaxed and returned the embrace just as tightly. The sound of John’s mobile ringing was lost in the constant stream of his thoughts _How? Finally. Sherlock. You’re safe. I knew it. Believed in you._

“You were almost too late, you bloody git,” John choked out, laughing shakily.

Sherlock’s voice was tight and broken when he replied, “I know.”

The phone continued to ring and was soon joined by the chime of Sherlock’s. Even that sound had been sorely missed, and John’s knees buckled with the relief of something so familiar. John let Sherlock help him to the bed and watched as the lanky man retrieved both of their phones. Sherlock gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes accompanied by a sigh before handing John his mobile which still continued to ring.

John stared unguardedly, watching Sherlock’s movements and committing them all to memory. He didn’t react to the other man until Sherlock insistently jabbed the ringing nuisance into his chest. He grabbed it and accepted the call without glancing down. “…Hello?”

“John! John, are you alright?” Mycroft’s smooth voice sounded odd this rushed and panicked. Before John could even reply Mycroft repeated the question and added, “Where are you?”

“Er… At the flat. W-with…with…”

“Yes? John—”

“With Sherlock,” he blurted, afraid that Mycroft would tell him he was mad. Afraid that he would blink and Sherlock would be gone.

“Good.” Mycroft let out a relieved sigh and John’s dread vanished. “You’re alright, then?” After John gave the affirmative, Mycroft growled, “Put my idiot brother on the phone.”

John did as instructed and watched as the Holmes brothers bickered. His knowledge of the conversation was limited, but he could at least listen to Sherlock’s voice; something which made him drowsy with relief.

“My—Mycroft! No, of course I… Well, yes, but… Would you let me finish? I know. I know. I _know_ , damn it! No, I was just on my way back. I ran. _Fine,_ I ran _quickly._ Right. No, I wasn’t going to just ‘pop in,’ I was going to check on him again, to see if I…if my return was…” Sherlock paused for a long moment and John stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. Sherlock _had_ been back to the flat; he hadn’t imagined the noises and Sherlock was checking in on him. How often? And did he really think John _wouldn’t_ want him to return? John’s anger swiftly flared.

“No, you know why. Mycroft, you—” Sherlock abruptly cut off when John jumped from the bed and struck him down with a solid punch.

Sherlock made a pained noise through grit teeth and clutched the phone, eyes fixed on John who was only too eager for retaliation. “No. Yes, he just punched me. Laugh it up, Mycroft,” Sherlock bit out and ended the call before turning all his attention to John.

They stared at each other for a tense moment, John was breathing heavily and Sherlock still hadn’t picked himself up.

“That hurt,” the detective finally said.

“Yeah, well, it was meant to, wasn’t it?” John growled.

The staring match continued for another beat before Sherlock said softly, “I missed you.”

John tried and failed to get anything past his tight throat. Instead he fell to his knees and gathered Sherlock into his arms again. They sat curled around each other until John began to shiver more from the cold than from emotion. Sherlock untangled himself and John’s hand darted out to grab the detective’s. “Please.”

“I’m only going to shut the window, John,” Sherlock said, giving John’s hand a squeeze. John released him and returned to the bed.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John sighed and rubbed at his face tiredly. He budged over when Sherlock came back to him and they sat in silence for a moment.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Sherlock finally broke the tension. John turned to look at him and he continued. “That day, it was all a ruse to keep you safe.”

“Yes, I’d gathered that. Moriarty must have threatened you, used me as a chess piece to win the game. But I was aware of the risks, Sherlock, and we could have handled it together.”

“Not with you in the cross-hairs!” Sherlock stood and began pacing. “And not just you, no, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade…and he didn’t mention the others, but I’m sure he would have not stopped there. All to destroy me. Me, someone who isn’t even worth the affection I’ve been shown anyway! He would take it all away, just to see me crumble. And it would work. I’ve become greedy with you, with the others. I need you. I can’t go back to the way things were. If he was allowed to carry out his plan, to end everyone, I…There would be nothing left. I couldn’t let him. I had to end it.” He spun around on his umpteenth lap and levelled John with a smile. “You’re wrong though, we _did_ handle it together. Without you, John… Without your skills, your drive, your texts…” Sherlock looked out the window, far beyond into the distance. “I was lost without those texts.” He smiled fondly. “To know you thought of me as much as I, you. To know that I wasn’t alone. I had Mycroft watch over you, but his reports were nothing until that first text from you.” He sighed shakily and looked at John again. “I was on a stakeout, wondering when the work would _end_ , wondering when I could come home – if I even had a home to come back to. And you reached out to me. It gave me strength, John. It reminded me exactly why I had to make sure every last threat was gone.” He traced his phone with his index finger in distraction, eyes distant again. “Then this last text. This last one.” He swallowed harshly, adam’s apple bobbing. “I thought I would be sick. Like ice water being thrown over me…couldn’t run fast enough…screaming in my head, I thought it would never end. I had to be faster, why couldn’t I run faster? My bloody window was locked, and then I realised it would make more sense to go straight up to yours. Fear had made me stupid, but I made it in time.”

“Sherlock…” John’s heart ached at Sherlock’s worries, his insecurities. He wanted to tell Sherlock it was all wrong, that he was loved and deserved love, that he would always have a place here, right beside him. He smartly kept to himself that Sherlock _hadn’t_ made it in time, that had the gun been properly loaded…

“Oh! That’s right, you said you’d been injured.” Sherlock suddenly switched gears and kneeled before John to take up his wrist. He prodded gently with great concentration before he glanced to the injured thigh. “Mycroft said you healed quickly – something about ‘a man with a mission, blah blah.’ But are you alright? I’ve only observed from afar, of course,” his face twisted in a pained grimace, “and I couldn’t determine…”

John laughed lightly. “I’m sure Mycroft didn’t say ‘blah.’”

“Oh, he’s too dull to listen to,” Sherlock insisted. “I only needed the facts from him, I didn’t need him to give me poetry. I needed to know about you.”

“Sherlock, come here,” John pleaded, arms open and welcoming. The detective’s concern was so intense and his eyes were wide and open, innocent and so worried. _How alone he must have been_ , John thought.

“You’re not going to hit me again, are you?”

That surprised another laugh out of John and he grinned at the cautious man before tugging him onto the bed. “Damn it, I missed you. Don’t leave again.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, “Never again.”

They shared another hug, arms locked tightly enough to strain the muscles. John was at a loss for words and when Sherlock – who was as observant as ever – noticed this, he picked up the slack.

“The first day was the hardest,” he began. “It was all suddenly so real, knowing all that I was leaving behind.”

As his friend continued, John found himself listening to the deep register of Sherlock’s voice more than the story. He knew he’d have to ask to hear it again and he felt a bit embarrassed by that. “Wait. What about a dog?”

“The dog led me to the jacket, John,” Sherlock explained again, with that familiar lilt to his voice that exposed his irritation of having to repeat himself. When John stared blankly, he added, “The jacket which belonged to the killer.”

“You were taking cases in addition to the Moriarty business?”

“Ye—weren’t you listening at all?”

“Sorry, I—” John interrupted himself with a yawn. Sherlock looked hurt, assuming his story was putting his friend to sleep. John was quick to reassure him, “Having you back, Sherlock, it’s doing funny things to me. I’m sure you know already, I’ve been having trouble sleeping.” That was putting it lightly and John couldn’t keep _himself_ from scoffing. “Just hearing you, it’s familiar. It’s home. After so long…”

Sherlock hummed in understanding.

“I can relax again,” John mumbled, slumping against Sherlock’s side. He tensed for a moment when Sherlock pushed him back to lie down, but gratefully allowed Sherlock to unlace his trainers and remove his socks. Sherlock slipped out of his own and removed his coat before he draped it over John’s chair. He wrestled the blankets out from underneath John and settled in beside him. It wasn’t the first time they shared a bed. After their first true meeting with Moriarty, John and Sherlock had been within arm’s distance of each other for a solid week. It also wouldn’t be the first time John slept in jeans, so he was surprised when Sherlock suddenly threw the covers off and demanded he remove them.

“What?”

"Eloquent as always, John," Sherlock teased affectionately. "Take them off. You keep shifting uncomfortably and it's not conducive to rest." As though to prove his point, Sherlock quickly removed his own trousers, followed by his shirt. After the shirt was removed, Sherlock turned around to reveal John's army tags hanging around his neck, highlighted by the moonlight. Though John gave a small start at the sight, Sherlock paid no mind and in fact seemed oblivious, as though it was natural to have them there. Perhaps it was natural, perhaps they'd been around his neck long enough to warrant that casual air. _I thought I'd lost them,_ John mused. _They went missing quite some time ago. I wonder when exactly he nicked them._ Now that Sherlock was clad in only his boxers, he resumed his spot on the bed and waited patiently.

Blushing, but far too tired to put up a fuss, John followed Sherlock’s example. When he returned to bed they fixed the covers and settled again. Sherlock, ever eager to upend social norms like personal space, wrapped himself around John and quickly tangled their limbs. The warm skin-on-skin contact was therapeutic and lulling; John felt as though he could finally breathe again, as though breaking the frigid surface of a lake he’d been struggling in to find the sun shining brightly above. He relaxed in Sherlock’s arms and didn’t even have the strength to keep his eyes open. He listened contently to Sherlock’s heartbeat, near as it was to his ear with Sherlock cradling his head to his chest. The tags were silent and warm between them. Sherlock’s cheek was rested against John’s head and every exhale made John’s hair flutter. Just as John began to drift off, he jerked back to wakefulness. Sherlock tensed around him and they both remained frozen against each other.

It was only a moment before Sherlock began rubbing John’s back comfortingly and John relaxed again. However, as exhausted as he was, John snapped awake again just as he felt himself slipping away. Sherlock must have nearly been asleep this time, because he made a startled noise when it happened again.

They repeated the same procedure and John continued to wander the hazy place between consciousness and sleep until Sherlock whispered soothingly, “I promise I’ll be right here when you wake, John.”

John lethargically took Sherlock’s hand in his, tangled as they were, and finally let himself go.


	3. Damage

John woke slowly, warm and groggy. Sunlight painted the room a soft gold, and John glanced at his watch: 7:09. Sherlock was still curled around him, snoring softly. A pleased grin spread across John’s face and he tugged Sherlock closer still. The movement made Sherlock wake with a start and for a few tense breaths they wrestled until Sherlock was no longer disoriented and his mind was free from the initial panic. They came to a rest with John on top, allowing him to easily study Sherlock’s cheek now that they weren’t struggling against each other; it was beginning to bruise and the colour contrasted sharply with his pale complexion.

John’s eyes dropped down to the army tags around Sherlock’s neck, laying loosely on his thin, quickly rising and falling chest. Sherlock’s muscles were still tense, gripping John’s upper arms to mirror the other man’s hold. Just as John reached out to finger the long-missed tags, Sherlock whispered, “John.” His eyes were glazed over with tears. Before any could spill, John flipped them over and renewed the wrestling session, roughing Sherlock up and tousling his hair more than once. Sherlock was stunned at first, initially flinching from contact before he took in John’s broad smile. He quickly joined in and John felt a part of himself unwind.

Sherlock’s teeth were bared in a feral smile, and he used his bony limbs to his advantage, surprising John several times with quick moves and the tendency to wriggle out of tight spots. Any time Sherlock managed to pin John down, John allowed him a brief moment of victory before breaking and reversing the hold like he’d been trained. It wasn’t long before they were laughing, loud and unrestrained. They wrestled like brothers, like children in a schoolyard.

They were breathless and flushed when John finally grabbed Sherlock and brought him close again, muscles lax and hold tender. Sherlock contently settled over John, draped across his full length. They let out sporadic chuckles as they caught their breath, holding each other warmly. John recalled from their time spent together after the pool incident that Sherlock was fond of light, teasing touches and he reached up to gently run his thumb and the pads of his fingers over Sherlock’s neck, earning a contended hum. Sherlock lazily reached for the blankets – which had been thrown aside as they wrestled – and brought them back to cover them. John helped him fix the blankets, working his fingers over Sherlock’s neck and shoulders.

Sherlock’s breathing deepened and gradually returned to his snoring. The detective’s elbows were tucked in against John’s sides, his hands trapped beneath the ex-soldier and warmly spread across his shoulder blades. Mindful of this, John hated to wake Sherlock again so shortly but didn’t want the detective to suffer pins and needles. His musings were interrupted by his stomach growling loudly.

“Nnngh?” Sherlock asked.

Blushing, John replied, “That was my stomach.” John couldn’t remember the last time he’d been properly hungry.

“I could feel it,” Sherlock commented sluggishly, voice heavy with sleep but twisted by surprise.

“Breakfast?”

“Sure.”

They untangled themselves, and tugged on their discarded clothes.

“It’s a little late, but do you want to ice your cheek?” John glanced up at Sherlock’s cheek again, feeling a tad guilty but not enough to offer an apology more than offering to help; Sherlock was the actions-speak-louder type, anyway.

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt.

John opened the door and almost walked into the hall before he realised Sherlock wasn’t following him. He glanced over his shoulder to find the detective staring at John’s gun which had tumbled to the floor at some point. _Did we sleep on it?_ John wondered with more than a little alarm and he moved back into the room to pick it up. When it was in his hand again, safety on, he noticed Sherlock’s gaze was now locked on the empty clip laying on the nightstand. The detective’s eyes were calculating and John could imagine his thought process: _Why is it there? Why dig around in the dark for the gun and an empty clip when all that was required was the gun? Unless the empty clip was in the gun, and had been removed after an initial check or after…after a failed attempt..._  A look of horror crossed Sherlock’s features and John swallowed harshly. He looked to John and John’s guilt must have been apparent, because without asking for a confirmation, Sherlock swore vehemently. He tugged at his hair and screwed his eyes shut. “While I was fighting with the damned lock on my window, you were…you had… I… Those few precious seconds…” He looked up at John and his eyes were hollow.

“…Sherlock,” John sighed and looked down at the pistol. Without saying anything more, he returned it – and the empty magazine – back to the drawer. He knew precisely how differently things could have turned out, and now that he again felt complete, he was already forgetting the feeling of all-consuming despair that had forced him to that hopeless point. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes following his movements and rather than offer an explanation, or empty words of comfort, he took Sherlock into his arms. The thin man was shaking, his hands were cold.

Tenderly, John placed a chaste kiss to the side of Sherlock’s neck as he tangled his hand in his ruffled curls. Sherlock let out a choked, pained sound and began crying, clutching at John desperately. The detective had refrained from tears last night, and had even avoided them this morning, but he could no longer glance over the emotions.

“Oh, John, John, what have I done?” He whispered tightly. He was still shaking and he tore out of John’s hold, voice somewhat panicked as he said, “I think I’m going to be sick.” He rushed from the room and John followed behind at a more sombre pace.

He listened to his friend retching painfully, and it was obvious after a moment that he didn’t have much in his stomach to expel. He grabbed two wash cloths from the linen closet and ran them under the tap before kneeling next to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, stop, that’s enough.”

The detective’s knuckles were nearly glowing white as he gripped the side of the toilet. He groaned and helplessly continued to retch, letting go with one hand so he could claw at his protesting stomach.

“Enough,” John ordered, pulling Sherlock back by his shirt collar and wiping his mouth with one of the towels and draping the other across the nape of his neck. He helped the trembling man settle against the opposite wall, flushing the toilet and tossing the used cloth in the sink. He turned back to the detective with the intention of removing the towel from his neck to wipe his forehead when he noticed Sherlock’s ankle. He gave a sharp intake of air at the sight of it, bruised and swollen to almost twice the size of the other. “Sherlock, your ankle…”

The detective’s gaze was still far-off, and he gave no indication he’d heard John at all.

John kneeled again, gently taking up his ankle and wincing in sympathy. While it could be a simple sprain, it could also be something more serious, something that may require prolonged bed-rest or even surgery. How had he not noticed this sooner? Their wrestling earlier surely must have aggravated it, but Sherlock hadn’t said a word. “You’ve well sprained it, Sherlock.” When he didn’t get any reaction again, he lightly slapped Sherlock’s cheek a couple times. “Hey, look at me. We have to treat this.”

“John?” Sherlock sounded lost, and for a moment he had the same disbelieving look he did early that morning upon discovering it was John he was woken by and not some stranger. His expression relaxed when he realised John _wasn’t_ dead, that he hadn’t succeeded with the bullet. The life of loneliness and guilt Sherlock must have been imagining while spilling his stomach wouldn’t come to fruition. Sherlock reached for him but was cut short by the awkward angle at which John had his leg propped up.

John took Sherlock’s hand in his, but didn’t let the man’s leg drop. “We have to treat this, Sherlock. How long have you been walking on it? Christ, it looks painful.”

Sherlock only noticed the injury now that it had been addressed. With a voice made raw from his time being sick, he said simply, “I didn’t realise. It must have happened while I was running.” He clutched at his stomach and grimaced, growling between clenched teeth, “Not that I was _quick enough_.” He scowled at the wall, eyes distant again.

“Hey. _Hey_ , enough. C’mon, up you get. I’ll get breakfast started and get you some ice.” He took the towel from Sherlock’s neck, wiped his forehead and face gently before tossing it in the sink as well. He reached for the detective and at the contact, Sherlock focused on him again. “It’s alright now,” he said tersely. Things hadn’t gone the way they both feared, nor could they be changed. Time and sloppy gun care, luck or fate had determined their reunion.

They made their way out into the hall, John supporting Sherlock just as much as he was being supported. They shared mirrored limps, and had the situation been less solemn, John may have laughed at the sight they surely made. He began to lead them toward his room again when Sherlock tensed and planted his good foot solidly.

“Don’t.”

John could hear the omitted end of that sentence, the vulnerable Don’t _leave me_ , so he set Sherlock to lean against the wall for a second before he crouched and manoeuvred the lanky man into a fireman’s carry. Sherlock’s instinct was to fight against him and he was still tense at being touched so familiarly. The detective typically abhorred touching but John had always been the constant exception, though it seemed as though Sherlock was reaching his limit for today. When John still wasn’t making progress after a few seconds, he warned sternly, “Sherlock.” Sherlock took in a deep breath into his belly and relaxed against John. Bracing the man’s thin wrist to his injured leg, John quickly navigated the stairs, his own limp ignored in his worry for his friend. He set down his burden at the landing, slipping under Sherlock’s shoulder once more to lead him to the sofa. Sherlock’s jaw was clenched and his cheeks were tinted pink, but he would not meet John’s gaze and John smartly kept these observations to himself.

As soon as Sherlock was settled, John lifted the man’s ankle with a few pillows and rushed to the kitchen. He dug in the freezer but found the ice trays empty save for two cubes, not enough for the ankle but perhaps enough for Sherlock’s cheek. He broke them out and wrapped them in a tea towel before he tossed the trays on the countertop to fill later. He dug around again and grabbed a bag of peas. Taking another towel from the counter, he returned to Sherlock and gently fixed the wrapped peas against his ankle. “We’ll give that a while, and then let it rest.” Sherlock didn’t respond, not that John expected him to. Sherlock was staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes once again far-off. “Sherlock,” John said affectionately, brushing back the man’s fringe. “Can you look at me?”

It took a moment, and what appeared to be a great deal of effort, but Sherlock’s eyes finally found John’s. John smiled warmly. “I’m right here, alright? It’s all fine. Nothing will part us.” Sherlock’s eyes were darting quickly between John’s, as though searching for clues.

“You can’t promise that,” he returned gruffly.

“I just did,” John said with finality. His conviction was enough to give Sherlock a reason to smile, but it was only a lifting of one corner of his mouth, an underlying sorrowful feeling to it. A sad smile for sweet lies.

“Here.” He placed the wrapped ice against Sherlock’s cheek and frowned when Sherlock hissed. “Tea, toast and eggs? Probably best if you eat light, but if we had more, I could make something else. We’ll go shopping later.”

At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes and took up the task of holding the ice in place. The tension evaporated as he huffed, “I hate shopping.”

“Oh, I’m well aware, Sherlock.” John smiled and returned to the kitchen, setting the toaster and stove to work. He banged about, cracking and scrambling the eggs and buttering the toast before turning to the kettle once it began whistling. On his first trip back to Sherlock, carrying their plates, John caught the detective stroking the side of the sofa meditatively, eyes closed and a small smile on his lips as he simply listened to John move about. The second trip, to deliver the tea, Sherlock was alert and somewhat closed-off.  John’s limp, while still noticeably present, was less defined and he couldn’t help but marvel at the power this man had over him. His first impulse was to settle in his own chair, but he realised Sherlock was going to have trouble working around his leg, so he added another pillow to the bothersome limb’s tower before lifting Sherlock up by his shoulders a bit, just enough for him to slip under them. He settled with one leg draped over the edge of the sofa while the other was tucked beneath Sherlock. He grabbed the edge of the table and dragged it closer to them, taking the makeshift icepack from Sherlock to toss it next to their plates. He had anticipated Sherlock to be edgy in this position, but the detective was unexpectedly loose. _You always keep me guessing,_ John mused fondly.

John handed Sherlock his plate and retrieved his own. They ate in silence, and though Sherlock had tried so hard earlier to empty his stomach, he ate just as ravenously as John felt. Once they were finished, John slipped free and grabbed the bag of peas from Sherlock’s ankle on his way to drop the dishes in the sink for washing later. He handed the detective his tea and smiled when Sherlock sat forward just enough for John to resume his place behind him; he didn’t say anything nor did he look at John – his tea seemed to require all of his attention – but the invitation was clear. John arranged their position again and they sipped their tea in contentment. John’s hand eventually found its way to Sherlock’s hairline, carding his fingers through the soft curls. Sherlock placed his mug on the tabletop after he nearly spilled it on himself as he relaxed.

“We’ll have to think of a way to inform Mrs Hudson of your reappearance.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” John sighed. “She may be strong, but I’d rather we not risk giving her a heart-attack by leaving her in the dark too long; she’ll stumble upon you eventually.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, rubbing at an eye lazily.

“She’s going to be upset.”

“I doubt her punches sting as much as yours,” Sherlock commented dryly.

John laughed lightly.

“Where is Mrs Hudson? Evidence points toward an unexpected trip…but where?”

“She’s out visiting family for the week. There was a pretty nasty car accident and her brother-in-law was hospitalised. She was going to be gone for a while, which is why I had figured it was good a time as any to—”

Sherlock twisted around and gave him a sharp look.

 _Right, then. Suicide attempts are filed under: Things We Do Not Discuss._ John cleared his throat and resumed massaging Sherlock’s scalp. The man was far from sleep now though, jaw clenched and gaze sharp on his battered ankle. He tensed suddenly and cocked his head to the side as though listening acutely.

“Mycroft’s here,” he drawled before settling against John again.

“Really?” John tried to lift Sherlock so that he could check, but the detective was suddenly immobile, as though made of stone. A disbelieving chuckle escaped John, “Sherlock, how are you—” The doorbell rang. “Let me up.” Though the other man didn’t reply, John spotted the small smile that flashed across his lips. “Really, Sherlock, it’s rude to leave a guest waiting.”

The front door rattled once and swung open, and though John straightened in concern at what could possibly be a threat, Sherlock was relaxed against him. The door shut again noisily and footsteps could be heard on the stairs. Guardedly, John watched the entryway and sighed when Mycroft stepped into view.

“Do I even want to know how you got in?”

“Let’s just say my brother isn’t the only one handy with…shall we say ‘crude keys’?” Mycroft leaned his ever-present umbrella against the fireplace and settled in Sherlock’s chair. Though he looked to his brother, Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him. Mycroft’s expression was no longer casual when he caught sight of Sherlock’s leg. “What have you done to yourself now?”

Sherlock got up and made a clumsy but stubborn show of leaving the room unaided, calling over his shoulder, “I’m taking a shower.”

John helplessly watched him go. He dragged a hand down his face tiredly and turned to Mycroft. “Would you like some tea?”


	4. Brother

Mycroft looked at John squarely, and though his eyes never left John’s, the doctor could feel the judging gaze on his injured leg. Truth be told, the wrist gave him trouble more days than his leg – he’d grown accustomed to dragging the limb when he mistakenly believed it was necessary in the past. The wrist, however, required stretching on bad days and at times, his hand refused to grasp his mug or deftly sort through his keys to open the door while the other held the shopping. It was frustrating to have to focus so hard on simple tasks, to know precisely how limited his hand was, that no matter how hard he instructed his fingers to manipulate the keys on his laptop or to take a file from Lestrade, sometimes he was clumsy, sometimes light items felt unbearably heavy. He had adapted, however. Anytime he felt the telltale tremble – the same tremble Mycroft himself had commented on but which now occurred for an entirely different reason – John would switch hands or toss the left’s burden to the right. No one had yet noticed his new habit of playing catch with himself, but now that Sherlock was back…

“If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“None at all,” John assured, stepping back into the kitchen to refill the kettle. He filled the ice trays and returned them to the freezer, listening to the pipes shudder to life as Sherlock started the shower. John wrote a reminder to pick up ice packs and stuck it to the fridge before returning to the sitting room.

“So I take it my brother injured himself running to your rescue last night.”

Mycroft’s casual tone made John raise an eyebrow. The man hadn’t been so calm last night. Though, much like Sherlock, Mycroft had difficulties with emotion. John was painfully aware of this and realised it was out of defence and insecurity that the brothers were not more open. It made John very curious as to their upbringing. “Yes,” he replied, “He was unaware.”

“Typical.” Mycroft played with the end of his tie, a nervous gesture which he tried to pass off as the actions of an uninterested man receiving boring news.

“You’ll find he’s not in the mood for company today. Though, when is he ever?”

“Oh? I would think he would be quite energetic, being back in your company.”

“Yes, it’s fantastic, to be together again.” Both men smiled.

“I know it was terribly difficult for you, and for him as well.”

John nodded, unable to trust his voice at the moment.

“We believed it was for the best though; if you and the others carried on oblivious, you would be at less risk. Had you been sure, it would have eventually shown and Moriarty’s men were made only more ruthless by their employer’s death. Sherlock refused to gamble with your life.”

John nodded again. “Good actor though you may be, I could still see a secret in your eyes. Some days, that was enough…”

Mycroft smiled wryly. “It was painful to keep you in the dark. Even more so when you took up the task of helping deconstruct Moriarty’s empire. You should know your efforts and faith meant the world to Sherlock. He was frantic to end the work, to return to you. He often spoke of all the dull domestic activates you would both enjoy once things were safe again.”

John chuckled fondly. “I admit I still have a little trouble, knowing it isn’t some dream. He’s in the same mindset, I think.”

“He may just be on guard. As you know, Moriarty had quite the spanning influence. I’m afraid the work isn’t done just yet. Though, I can guarantee that you, and the others, will remain priority under my watch; you will not become a target.”

John bristled a bit – he knew he’d been under observation for some time now, but to have Mycroft assume he needed constant looking after was insulting. John wasn’t new to trouble, nor was he incapable of fighting for himself and others. He’d been a soldier; he’d always be a soldier.

“Come now,” Mycroft sniffed. “Don’t be upset. It would be exhausting looking over your shoulder every day. It’s nice having someone guard your flank, and entering battle alone would be foolish. Sherlock would not allow it.”

John glanced away. He knew Mycroft spoke the truth, and to protest now after so long would only seem ungrateful. Mycroft had put a lot of time and energy into ensuring they were all safe despite John’s reckless behaviour in the field.

“Besides,” he continued after a moment, “Sherlock isn’t the only one who cares about you.”

John sighed. “I know, Mycroft.” He looked back to the composed man. “Thank you.”

Mycroft gave a subtle nod. “At any rate, Sherlock will be back to his old habits soon enough.”

“Hopefully.” John hesitated before he added, “I wish there was something I could do, to put him more at ease. Moriarty isn’t the immediate cause for his mood – he’s being a bit harsh on himself, now that he’s found out he was late. I’m not quite sure how to remedy the situation.”

Mycroft looked at John inquisitively but did not say anything.

“He arrived last night only after my first failed attempt,” John offered briefly as explanation. Mycroft looked as though he’d been struck. John hurriedly continued, averting his gaze. “He found out this morning. I’d meant to keep that fact from him, but he’s _Sherlock_. Now that he knows, he’s in a mood. A mixture of guilt, fear and frustration, I think; he has a tendency to imagine all the possibilities, as well you know, and I’m afraid he’s a bit stuck in his head.” The kettle began to whistle and John left to tend to it, unable to look at Mycroft. He could feel the man’s eyes on him all the way into the kitchen, and the usually collected man was simply radiating anxiety. John hadn’t meant to be so blunt about it, but there was no sense in treating the matter gently, and now that Mycroft also knew perhaps there was a solution. John wasn’t unfamiliar with Sherlock’s moods, but there hadn’t yet been a catalyst as serious as this one.

He prepared a new mug, drizzling a generous portion of honey onto a spoon for Mycroft. After numerous visits, John had gradually come to read Mycroft almost as easily as he could Sherlock, and John knew sugar and milk were fine, but honey – lots of it – was the man’s favourite; Mycroft always took satisfied pulls from a mug of honeyed tea and rarely set it down until he was finished. Whereas, tea prepared without honey was consumed intermittently, and on a few occasions Mycroft had even allowed it to grow cold before he remembered to finish it.

John returned with their tea, uneasy in the new atmosphere he’d created. He handed Mycroft the sweet drink and jostled both mugs when he tried to step back but found himself trapped by Mycroft’s stern grip.

Mycroft looked up at him, gaze intense. “John.”

“Mycroft, I didn’t mean to be—”

“No, please. John. I’m sorry. I know my visits over the last months have been less frequent. I know now how time-sensitive your text was last night, but by the time I’d checked… I was late as well then, wasn’t I?”

John let his eyes drop to the hand Mycroft had wrapped warmly in his own. The injured wrist threatened to release the mug and he prayed he had enough strength to save him that embarrassment. “Can’t always be perfect,” he said in what he hoped was a teasing tone.

Mycroft returned that with grave silence.

“Er,” John looked to Mycroft properly again. “Really, Mycroft, it’s fine. I only meant to say treat Sherlock kindly, especially today. He’s injured and having a hard time of things. But if you have a solution, I’d be very grateful. When I was in his position, being too late… Well, I had a lot of support. But he tends to close himself off, shoulder the bad outcomes alone. Even though things didn’t turn out poorly, he’ll be haunted and I’m not sure how to turn things around.”

Mycroft shook his head disbelievingly. “Back to your old role as caretaker, then?” He smiled and released John’s hand. “You’re truly something else, doctor.”

John was indescribably pleased that he hadn’t spilled Mycroft’s tea in his lap, but he made an effort not to show it. He couldn’t save himself the embarrassment of blushing at Mycroft’s comment however and he cleared his throat.

Mycroft saved him from fumbling for a reply by commenting offhandedly, “Sherlock often mentioned your jumpers. I believe he quite enjoys them, despite his teasing.”

John glanced down to his simple tee. He took the not-too subtle hint and fetched the heather grey jumper that was draped over the back of his chair. He tugged it on and resumed his seat and tea, catching the smile Mycroft hid behind his mug.

“He also spoke of ‘crap telly,’ and the weathered smell of your silly sci-fi novels, which he admitted – after four days without sleep, mind – could occasionally be interesting.”

Failing miserably to fight a smile, John picked up the remote and turned on the television. It had been quite a while since he last had it on for anything other than background noise, when the flat had been terribly cold and quiet. He realised what Mycroft was aiming for: recreate the feeling of “home,” of domesticity and normalcy as much as possible. It wouldn’t benefit just Sherlock, John knew, but he also knew that trying to wind the clock back to _before_ wouldn’t be possible. They would have to build something new from here, but they would do it together.

“He was so broken without you,” Mycroft nearly whispered, his voice almost lost to the rambling of the drama playing on the television. His gaze was soft and John remained quiet to avoid scaring Mycroft into changing the subject as he was wont to. Mycroft studied his tea, which hadn’t left his hands. “He turned to me, in his time away from you, when he was at his lowest. And it was as though we were children again, holding hands through a thunderstorm, solving riddles, facing the world together. We were bonding again, often over news of you, of mutual worry for all involved in this tangle. He wasn’t quite as intimidated by me – he was willing to accept my help, to use the resources I had freely and without that incessant need to prove himself. I confess it felt good, to be needed and trusted by him again. However, I had my time with him, and I will always treasure our younger years. If I am to be replaced,” he looked up to John again, “I am glad it’s by you.”

“…Mycroft,” John frowned. Before he could properly respond, the sound of Sherlock opening the door to the loo caused Mycroft’s mask to fall back into place. The man calmly sipped at his tea with a carefully constructed aura of indifference. John let his eyes fall to the floor.

Sherlock made much more noise than usual as he limped down the stairs. John was used to Sherlock stalking about the flat as silent as a cat, often swallowing back startled curses when the detective snuck up on him or blinking to suddenly find Sherlock in the room with him. Sherlock’s childlike amusement in scaring John had been a dominant reason John had had so much trouble dealing with the hallucinations, though he was willing to bet the glimpses outside the flat weren’t entirely imagined and he now knew for a fact that Sherlock had returned through his own window for whatever reason however many times. John closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock’s uneven breathing, his measured steps. As long as Mycroft was present, John couldn’t hope for much more than a guarded, cheeky Sherlock.

They both looked up as Sherlock entered the sitting room, dressed in loose sleep bottoms and a plain tee. The attention made Sherlock uncomfortable, but the only outward evidence of this was a slight clenching of his jaw and a quick glance to the television as well as John’s jumper, taking in evidence of the subject of their conversation. John was quick to notice his discomfort and he shifted back into the position they had rested in earlier. His silent invitation worked and Sherlock made his way to John, sparing Mycroft a fleeting look before lying down. He muffled a relieved sigh against John’s leg as his weight was lifted off his injured foot. He settled himself facing the back of the sofa, hiding from Mycroft.

John and Mycroft shared an exasperated look over Sherlock’s head. John mouthed the word _ice_ and glanced pointedly to Sherlock’s ankle which was tucked against the armrest. Mycroft quickly got to his feet and retreated to the kitchen. Sherlock had tensed slightly at Mycroft’s disappearance but John put a calming hand to his head to prevent any remarks the man may be thinking up. When Mycroft returned, he manhandled Sherlock without apology. He propped up his leg again with a couple pillows between his ankles and one between his knees to prevent strain before he fixed the wrapped peas back over the injury. Sherlock balked at the treatment, twisting around with his mouth open to surely snap at his brother but John intervened, shushing him and tangling his hand in his hair to encourage him to lie back down. Sherlock let out a sharp, frustrated huff through his flared nostrils but allowed John to sooth his head as Mycroft resumed his seat.

There was concentrated silence as Sherlock and John took each other in, and Mycroft finished up his tea without interrupting them. John was initially content to simply watch Sherlock breathe, but it wasn’t long before his hand began to move. He traced the man’s jaw with the back of his fingers, smoothed an eyebrow with his thumb, dipped beneath the neck of his shirt to stroke the beads of chain resting there before running a fingertip over the sharply protruding collar bone. In the meantime, Sherlock had taken up John’s unoccupied left hand in his right, fingertips grazing the mended bones of his wrist not so much to take his pulse as to simply assure himself it was there. His other hand was curled into the hem of John’s jumper, fingering the material with half-lidded eyes.

John paused when Sherlock froze, and released him when the man twisted to prop himself up. Mycroft watched intently as Sherlock stared at the hem of John’s jumper. John straightened when Sherlock shifted to his knees, knocking the makeshift icepack to the floor to grab both of John’s wrists, bringing the cuffs up to his face for inspection. His eyes narrowed and flicked up to John’s. He kept their gazes locked and they remained stock-still, unblinking.

No one spoke. Sherlock was calculating, Mycroft was hesitant to disturb whatever this was, and John was dreading the moment he’d be found out.

Abruptly, Sherlock released John and got his feet under him. He stalked to Mycroft as steadily as his ankle would allow and demanded, “Get up.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Looking more than a little affronted, Mycroft stood.

 Sherlock brushed him aside lightly and tore away the cushion on his chair to reveal two aerosol cans of yellow quick-dry spray paint. One was completely spent, but the other still felt weighty and the ball bearing inside experienced resistance when he picked it up.

“Taking lessons from Raz, then?” He drawled, glancing back at John.

John glanced up to him for a brief moment before he turned to stare at the wall, lips curling faintly in a smile. “No. It’s not so difficult, really. A bit more practise and my work will rival his.”

“Oh, is that a fact?” Sherlock grinned.

“It is. I don’t even drip anymore.”

“That is true,” Sherlock murmured. “Improved quite a bit.”

John smirked. When he had first tagged I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES, it had been out of a frustrated defiance. Everyone had been so determined to convince him otherwise in the matter, after all, how could the papers ever lie? _No one is that good, that amazing, John. Consider the facts, John._ Sherlock is, and I’ve got all the facts. Inane babble from simple minds. After the first go, John had been a little more clever about it, sneaking at night and making dedicated efforts to avoid detection by Mycroft and the boys at the Yard. He always did the job alone, and made sure to never mark over anyone else’s work.

“I had thought it was possible, that they might be yours – some of them, at any rate – but it was a challenge to be sure. Your handwriting changes when you have free motion with your entire arm. Small variances lead me to spot what could have been yours. I’m surprised you would have risked another ASBO.”

“You’re worth it,” John said sincerely, looking to Sherlock again.

Mycroft interrupted, “Am I to assume you’re discussing criminal activities?” He rolled his eyes. “Really, the work I put into keeping you boys out of trouble. Don’t say another word. I’ll take my leave – I haven’t heard much of anything after all, have I?” He set his empty mug down on the table and retrieved his umbrella. “Thank you for the tea, John,” he looked at him pointedly and John knew the honey was appreciated. “Sherlock, stay off that ankle.” He left the room, hiding a smile.

The man’s footfalls disappeared down the stairs and the door was opened, shut, and locked again. John looked back to Sherlock to find him turning one of the cans over in his hand, lips pulled up in a delicate smile.


	5. Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credit where credit is due: Lewis Carroll, William Shakespeare, Thomas Hood, William Butler Yeats.

Shortly after Mycroft left, John convinced Sherlock to get off his ankle and settle on the sofa to watch crap telly. They sat side by side, Sherlock’s leg propped up and iced on the table – something which Mrs Hudson would not be pleased to have witnessed concerning hygiene _That’s where_ food _goes, boys_ , but there was a lot about their hygiene habits that didn’t please her.

“And this is…?” Sherlock drawled, blinking owlishly at the screen.

“It’s a new show, called _Buddy Travels_. See that bloke with the budgie? He’s the host - Daniel. The bird’s Buddy; show’s named after him.”

Sherlock stared, unimpressed as the camera crew followed the energetic Daniel up a staircase in Schloss Neuschwanstein.

“Er, I don’t think it’ll last long,” John said a little haltingly.

“Oh, I should think it will last some time; budgies have a typical life span of five years or more depending on care.”

“No, that’s not what I—wait, you know _that_ but you don’t know the Earth goes round the bloody _Sun_?”

Sherlock gave a long, exaggerated, suffering sigh, neck craned back to stare at the ceiling. John couldn’t help but laugh, hard enough to produce a few tears.

Sherlock looked at him, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Well, you would think I’d be able to delete that information, but with your _constant_ reminders…”

John grinned and tossed his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. He turned his attention back to the television. He’d always had an interest in castles, and though he would never admit it to Sherlock, the small noises Buddy made were amusing. He knew Sherlock wasn’t very engaged with the show, but he was surprised to find the man nodding off. Sherlock boldly tried to hide the fact: every time his head dipped, he’d snap back to vigilance, blinking and shifting a bit, continuing conversations John wasn’t aware they’d been having.

“No, my green lighter, did you take it?”

“What?”

Sherlock frowned and patted his pockets but he realised belatedly that he wasn’t wearing proper trousers. “…Never mind.”

He watched the programme for a few more minutes before he nodded off again. John wasn’t paying him much attention until he suddenly spoke, interrupting a bit on Ludwig.

“He gave me the address on the last day.”

“Who gave you the address?”

“The inn-keeper.”

“Ah, yes, of course…” John flashed him a concerned look but Sherlock was already nodding off again.

The detective jolted, snorting lightly. “Où est mon violon? Vous l'avez déplacé. Ou se cache-t-il?” When John only stared at him blankly, Sherlock frowned and glanced about the room with a confused gaze. He seemed dazed and after a moment said, “It was cigarette ash, but it was perfumed. Grapes. Marketed toward children?”

John frowned but didn’t comment.

Another lapse. John watched him critically when he woke himself abruptly once more and commented, “The Thames was colder than I thought it would be.” He finally kicked the makeshift icepack off his ankle and let his foot drop to join its twin on the floor.

“Why are you so tired, Sherlock? It’s a bit unlike you.” John finally asked, his concern outweighing any chance of offense Sherlock might take. They’d had arguments in the past over his sleep habits, and he was used to Sherlock’s frequent sleepless nights and conclusive crashes while on a case, but this behaviour was almost zombie-like, as though the man was in the midst of a bout of somnambulism.

“Haven’t slept – I was…what’s the phrase? ‘Behind enemy lines.’ Too risky to sleep. Since Friday,” the detective drawled softly. “It’s been a few days.”

“Sherlock… _Today_ is Friday.”

“Oh.” A delayed pause as he thought. “A week, then?” He yawned before he continued, “No, wait, I did sleep last night.”

John frowned. He pulled Sherlock against him, allowing the other man to pillow his head on his chest. “No, John,” Sherlock struggled weakly. “If today is Friday, I should be getting a call… From Mycroft.” He reached for John’s wrist and squinted at his watch, taking much longer than John deemed necessary to read the time. “Two hours… Important.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“No, s’about Moriarty. I need to—”

“ _I’ll_ handle it,” John repeated.

“…Dangerous.”

John laughed and the reverberations made Sherlock smile. “When isn’t it?”

He fisted John’s jumper, humming softly. “No, I mean… They’re still watching. I shouldn’t be here. But your text…”

“Who is watching?” John combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, massaging and tugging lightly.

“Mmnn.” Sherlock nuzzled the warm jumper but sharply cut himself short when he seemed to realise what he was doing. “Men of Moriarty’s men… They know why, know about you. They want revenge.”

“Men who were uninvolved are now seeking revenge against us for killing people they knew under Moriarty?”

Sherlock mumbled and unsuccessfully tried to bat John’s hand away. “Hate begets hate. A long chain, more links… They’re watching…” His eyes slipped shut as John’s hand continued to soothe. “Unpredictable: violent but not organised….”

“Well, Mycroft is watching, too.”

“…Mycroft’s always watching….” Sherlock agreed in a soft slur. He sluggishly wrapped his arms about John’s waist, snaking one hand under his clothes to rest against his warm side.

John took in an unsteady breath at the feel of the man’s cold fingers but didn’t pull away. Sherlock finally gave in and his soft snoring brought a smile to John’s lips. He carefully retrieved the detective’s phone from his pyjama bottoms, lowered the incoming volume and set it on the armrest to await Mycroft’s call.

Two hours and ten minutes passed. At 16:00 sharp, Sherlock’s mobile rang.

“We have Mr Williams, Mrs Smith and Mr Odell in custody.”

“…Timothy Odell?” John frowned in confusion. He was sure the man had been killed. By either Sherlock or Mycroft – there wasn’t much clarification, just a general animosity within the deceased man’s circle in regards to a Holmes.

“…John? Where is my brother?”

“Ah, sorry, he’s sleeping,” John said in a quiet tone.

“Yes, well, I suppose it’s about time. You’ll take care of him?”

“Of course.”

“Do have him call me once he’s rested.”

“Ah, wait. Mycroft,” John said in a rushed, hushed voice, hoping to stay the man before he hung up. The Holmes brothers never said goodbye over the phone, or ever, really, so it was always a guessing game as to when the call would suddenly be disconnected or they would rush from the room.

“Yes?”

“You said you had Odell.”

There was a pause, as though Mycroft was heavily considering his options.

“I’m a part of this, Mycroft, and I’m capable.”

“Yes. Yes, I know. I’m well aware, John.” John could hear a muffled sigh from the man before he continued. “It isn’t Timothy, but his brother, Michael. He’s been stalking Sherlock for a couple months now, but only recently because Sherlock is quite the ghost when he wants to be,” John snorted and Mycroft continued as if he hadn’t interrupted, “and he’s had trouble putting his threats to use. Timothy met his end in the Thames; dragged my brother in with him. Sherlock was in poor shape when I finally got there, the reckless fool.”

“What? He was just mumbling something about that…”

“It was quite some time ago. Your tip helped lead us to Odell, but we weren’t quite prepared. Cornered beasts are always the most unpredictable.”

John frowned and returned his hand to Sherlock’s head, brushing a thumb over the shell of his ear.

“Sherlock recovered quickly, though,” Mycroft assured him.

“Was he injured?”

“…Er. Well. Pneumonia.”

John’s eyes fell shut. He focused on the detective’s rhythmic snoring. He’d put Sherlock in such danger.

“But with you at his side, there shouldn’t be a worry for such things anymore,” Mycroft said in a comforting tenor. “In fact, I should probably expect some trouble from you two soon, shouldn’t I? You’ll be off having adventures, causing disruptions.”

John smiled. “Adventures?”

“Yes. I know you’re both quite fond of them. Before that, though, make sure he rests up. Have him call me.”

“Or you could always stop by for another visit,” John offered casually.

“…Perhaps.”

The call was disconnected and John shook his head. He set the phone aside and looked to Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” he said softly. “Hey, Sherlock.” He nudged the man gently and was shocked by the violent reaction he got.

The detective startled awake, eyes open but unfocused. He was nearly on his feet, arms raised in a fighting pose, before he took in his surroundings. He let his arms drop and blinked at the surprised ex-soldier. “John? What…?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” John eyed him for a moment with a frown. Why was Sherlock waking in that manner so consistently? What had happened? What was he expecting?

“Oh. No, uh… It’s fine.” He yawned and added as though an afterthought, “Sorry.”

“Sherlock, head up to bed.”

The detective glanced away, guarded and frowning slightly.

“ _My_ bed. Go on. I’ll be up shortly.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped minutely in relief. He nodded and made his way to the stairs. John cleaned up quickly, switching off the television, throwing the peas back in the freezer, placing their dirtied dishes in the sink. He took the stairs two at a time and stepped in his room to find Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, staring solemnly at the nightstand.

“Sherlock.”

The detective slowly looked over, gaze travelling the entirety of John, silent with hollow eyes. John offered a weak smile before he placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “Lie down, now.”

Sherlock did as instructed, subdued. John took up his wounded ankle and gently stretched it, checking for resistance or signs of pain from Sherlock. The man didn’t give any, and though the joint was still a little stiff, it wasn’t too worrisome. John soothed the sore flesh with his thumbs a bit before he released Sherlock. The detective burrowed under the blankets and watched John as he stripped down to his boxers and pulled on chequered pyjama bottoms. They settled naturally in each other’s arms and John took a moment to marvel at the feeling of something so liberating, of having the detective back. Alive and safe. He buried his nose in soft curls and listened to them breathe in time together. He let his thoughts wander as the other man gradually drifted to sleep.

It had only been two hours according to John’s watch when Sherlock stirred fitfully. In an effort to keep the man asleep, John narrated the first fragment of literature that came to mind:

“‘Once upon a time there were three little sisters,’ the Dormouse began in a great hurry; ‘and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well—’ ‘What did they live on?’ said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. ‘They lived on treacle,’ said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. ‘They couldn't have done that, you know,’ Alice gently remarked; ‘they'd have been ill.’ ‘So they were,’ said the Dormouse; ‘ _very_ ill.’ Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: ‘But why did they live at the bottom of a well?’ ‘Take some more tea,’ the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. ‘I've had nothing yet,’ Alice replied in an offended tone, ‘so I can't take more.’ ‘You mean you can't take _less_ ,’ said the Hatter: ‘it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing.’”

At the familiar register of John’s voice, Sherlock was shortly back to sleep. John sighed and considered all the sleepless nights they must have shared, with sprawling lands between them but thoughts entangled. Nights spent worrying, wondering and hoping. Nights spent bloodying their hands and running from nightmares.

Two hours passed uninterrupted until Sherlock murmured in a trembling voice, “…No.”

John began speaking again, without hesitation or much thought. “Mark it, uncle. / Have more than thou showest, / Speak less than thou knowest, / Lend less than thou owest, / Ride more than thou goest, / Learn more than thou trowest, / Set less than thou throwest, / Leave thy drink and thy whore, / And keep in-a-door, / And thou shalt have more / Than two tens to a score.”

Sherlock mumbled in reply, “This is nothing, fool.”

Smiling, John continued: “Then ‘tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer. You gave me nothing for’t. Can you make no use of nothing, uncle?”

A pause before Sherlock slurred, “Why no, boy. …Nothing…can be made…out of nothing…”

John waited with bated breath as another two hours neared completion, and predictably, Sherlock began to wake, breath catching in his throat. “There is a silence where hath been no sound, / There is a silence where no sound may be, / In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea, / Or in wide desert where no life is found, / Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; / No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently.” John paused when Sherlock buried his face against his neck, a small noise of contentment slipping past his lips. He continued softly, “But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, / That never spoke, over the idle ground: / But in green ruins, in the desolate walls / Of antique palaces…” Sherlock was snoring again and John sighed. He considered other poems – though Sherlock often teased John when he was overheard reciting them as he showered, Sherlock never outright accused him of folly or wasting space on the hard drive that was his brain.

He didn’t have to worry until another two hours had passed and Sherlock began to stir once more. His internal clock was either set for the two hours time to receive Mycroft’s call – which had unfortunately happened hours ago – or to ensure he was prepared for anything while in the field. John gently spoke, “My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient stair; / Set all your mind upon the steep ascent, / Upon the broken, crumbling battlement, / Upon the breathless starlit air, / Upon the star that marks the hidden pole; / Fix every wandering thought upon / That quarter where all thought is done: / Who can distinguish darkness from the soul?”

“Are you going to do this for me,” Sherlock asked drowsily, “all night?”

“Until you get some real rest, yes.”

Sherlock hummed.

As the detective seemed satisfied to simply listen, John continued, kneading the man’s back, shoulders and neck, pressing with the heel of his hand, tracing the man’s protruding vertebrae with his fingertips. “My Self. The consecrated blade upon my knees / Is Sato’s ancient blade, still as it was, / Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass / Unspotted by the centuries; / That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn / From some court-lady’s dress and round / The wooden scabbard bound and wound, / Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn.”

Sherlock’s hold slackened and his breathing evened.

“My Soul. Why should the imagination of a man / Long past his prime remember things that are / Emblematical of love and war? / Think of ancestral night that can, / If but imagination scorn the earth / And intellect…”

The man had fallen asleep once again and John paused. He listened to him breathe, and imagined with educated accuracy the rattled breaths he would have taken while ill, his cough, the fever-induced mutterings. He frowned and tucked the blankets in around him tighter. Tomorrow, he would ask Sherlock about everything that had occurred while they were separated. He wanted every detail, and though he knew Sherlock had a tendency to downplay his own injuries, John would press until he had every fact. The detective’s breathing now was only disrupted by familiar snoring. It was reassuring, and the sounds of the flat settling were lulling.

“Mrs Hudson will be back Sunday,” John whispered to the sleeping man. “We still have to come up with a plan.” He let his tired eyes slide shut and he followed Sherlock to dreamland with confidence the eccentric man would be there waiting for him.


	6. Shock

John was the first to wake again. He waited patiently, unmoving in an attempt to seem unthreatening. He simply served as a warm, solid presence for Sherlock to safely cling to.

When the detective finally woke, it was blessedly slow, and without that panicked flinching.

“Morning,” John greeted with a soft smile when the detective propped himself up to check on him.

Sherlock returned it, squeezing John briefly before stretching languidly. He hummed contently and wrapped his arms around John again. “Missed you. Dreamt about this a lot,” he admitted, voice muffled against John’s neck.

John blinked at the ceiling. He rubbed his thumb absently against Sherlock’s cheek. He had no idea Sherlock had missed this as much as he had; on the eighth night after the pool incident, they had both retired to their own beds without comment. John had just assumed Sherlock had met his fill and no longer needed the assurance John wasn’t going to disappear, though he often caught the man staring at him when he thought John wouldn’t notice and their hands had a tendency to brush more often in mundane tasks. On several occasions, John had to make an effort to pretend not to notice Sherlock following him about town when he ran errands. Their time apart after the fall must have only increased the cravings Sherlock had denied himself, cravings which John had also pushed aside. “I dreamt of violin music...” he said softly. He felt Sherlock’s smile.

Sherlock’s hand drifted up to John’s left shoulder where he ran the pad of his thumb over the man’s army injury. John focused on the strange sensation over the sensitive scar tissue; Sherlock was the only person other than himself to ever touch it. All the women John had been intimate with had avoided it, as though it were something shameful or contagious. He let his eyes slide shut as Sherlock continued to stoke that spot meditatively.

“Your nightmares…?”

John frowned. “Yeah, they came back. New ones, too,” he added.

Sherlock squeezed him again, a silent apology. “Your early morning texts were the hardest not to respond to, the ones that came at three and four. Sleepless nights.”

“The days following, Mycroft would check up on me. Was he reading in the whole time?” John could feel Sherlock smile again.

“No, not all the time, but he did have my mobile cloned, so I imagine he read often enough. No, those nights, I made sure to send him over. He was unsure with visiting at first; worried you’d still be upset.”

John stared at the ceiling quietly, making a conscious effort to release his tension on his exhale when he realised his muscles had tightened. “It took some time. But he was the closest thing I had to you… Besides, mistakes should be forgiven, especially when holding on to anger hurts so many.”

Sherlock hummed again, pressing closer. “John.” He squeezed him again. “My John. My amazing, brave, caring—”

“Alright, enough of that,” John cleared his throat, blushing and pushing Sherlock away half-heartedly. Sherlock refused to budge at all and John laughed. “Speaking of Mycroft, you owe him a phone call.”

Sherlock was tight-lipped and still.

“He’s expecting it, and no, a text won’t suffice.”

Sherlock remained silent.

“I know you heard me, and I know you’re not sleeping; it doesn’t sound like a lawn mower low on fuel in here.”

“I don’t snore,” Sherlock mumbled against his shoulder, offended.

John laughed again, “Yeah, you do.” He turned down the sheets to nudge the detective out of bed but Sherlock just as easily brought them back up to cover them.

“Five minutes,” he pleaded. “Give me five more minutes of this.” His wiry muscles were tense, as though in preparation to vault from the bed should John deny him.

John nodded, gathering the detective in his arms again, settling under the warm blankets. Sherlock relaxed against him, limbs heavy. He gave a small hum when John rested his lax lips against the crown of his head. For five minutes they shared the same air, resting in comfortable silence.

When his time was up, Sherlock wordlessly extracted himself and sat on the edge of the bed. John got up after him and kneeled at his feet to inspect his injured ankle. It was noticeably improving and Sherlock didn’t give any sign of pain when John once again checked for mobility. When he was finished, they both stood and Sherlock haltingly lifted a hand to brush the hair along John’s temple, the same place he had rested the barrel of his gun.

John’s heart ached at the sight of Sherlock’s haunted expression. He took him into his arms again, patiently waiting until Sherlock returned the embrace. When they parted, John nudged him toward the door. He set to making the bed as Sherlock started the shower. He grabbed a pair of boxers, trousers and a shirt to shower into before he sat on his bed to glance at the headlines on his mobile: a fatal stabbing in the Underground; a new species of fish found in the Atlantic; another robbery at a petrol station. The shower cut off and John gave Sherlock a minute before he got up to take his turn.

Sherlock had cleared out quickly, John assumed to fetch a change of clothes. The detective had painted a smiley face in the condensation on the mirror with his finger and John smiled at it. He wiped it clean to unexpectedly catch sight of himself. He looked haggard, dark smudges under his eyes and hair unkempt from more than just sleep. He frowned at the sight of his hollow cheeks and he glanced away, running his palm over the back of his neck. He jumped in the shower and let his thoughts slip away as steam blanketed the mirror once more.

John stepped into the kitchen to find Sherlock playing with his chemistry equipment, filling a beaker with a grey liquid. John paused to listen to the familiar sound of the glass containers clinking against each other, watching Sherlock’s bright eyes watch the reaction intently when he mixed in a white powder. The mixture fizzled and settled and a sickeningly sweet smell filled the room, like sugared cherries. Sherlock watched as the mixture quickly gelled and he wrinkled his nose. He scraped the mixture down the drain. “Close,” he muttered. “The base is correct…”

“What are you doing? Are you making syrup?”

Sherlock glanced up and frowned. “No, you wouldn’t want to ingest this…” He looked back to the scattering of equipment before him. “I left a case open… It’s seven years old. A man was suspected of killing his wife, but he was never convicted for lack of evidence. She died of rapid heart failure and the toxicology report didn’t bring up much except a curious amount of formaldehyde and traces of arsenic and ammonia in her system. She was a smoker, though, and a user of general products that contained other ingredients mentioned in the report, but it was questionable… Her family history contained incidents of heart issues and the case gradually drifted when no immediate foul-play was discovered. However, it was noted that her breath was sweet and smelled like grapes, which could have been any number of things – a bacterial infection, sweets, or an attempt to disguise poison. There was a collection of ash along one of her knees where they assumed she’d been tapping her last cigarette and the fingers of her right hand held the same sweet smell as her breath, but after some digging I found there were no flavoured cigarettes on her person at the time of death nor was she known for smoking any of that sort; several of her friends claimed she didn’t like the idea of cigarettes being marketed so blatantly to children…”

“You’re making poison…?”

“Sweet-smelling poison, yes. With additives that won’t negate the affects of the poison or over-power the typical taste of a cigarette, because had she noticed, wouldn’t the victim have questioned it?”

“Just…label whatever you decide to save from the drain.”

“Maybe he hadn’t meant for it to be sweet,” Sherlock mused to himself, placing his palms together and resting his fingertips against his lips as he thought.

John yanked the man’s hands away from his mouth and swallowed harshly. “Wash up before you do that,” he frowned.

Sherlock mirrored his frown and got up to scrub his hands at the sink obediently. When he sat back down, he dug a crushed and worn pack of cigarettes and a green lighter from his pocket. He had a stick dangling from his lips and had flicked the lighter twice before he noticed the strong tension in the room. He looked up to find John staring at him.

Before the detective could properly put the lighter to use, John grabbed the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it in the bin. “No.”

Sherlock snapped his jaw shut when he realised it was hanging open. “No?”

“No,” John repeated sternly, grabbing the lighter and the pack to toss them in the bin as well. Sherlock couldn’t expect John to allow him to smoke now, especially after the subject of his seven year old cold case, and although the man had been struck down by pneumonia sometime after their fifteenth month apart, John wouldn’t permit him to abuse his weakened lungs. It had taken a lot to convince the man to give up his nicotine patches all those years ago, and the withdrawal period hadn’t been pleasant, but John was willing to do it again. “In times of stress and to kill time in the field, I know it’s easy to take up smoking and _other_ habits,” John paused, recalling their vicious month-long row after John had stumbled upon Sherlock with a needle stuck in his arm, wearing a sloppy smile and offering a thready pulse. They’d only moved on after Sherlock finally gave a heartfelt promise he wouldn’t continue his dangerous habit in order to ease John’s constant worry. It hadn’t stopped John from unapologetically rolling up the man’s sleeves to check for track marks on occasion, or measuring his vitals when he was too distracted by an experiment or case to effectively fight the concerned doctor off. “But you don’t need it.”

“Oh, don’t I?”

“You didn’t smell like smoke when you jumped through my window the other night. You must not smoke them all the time.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” John countered. “It means you don’t need it. You can break the habit again.”

“It’s not much of a habit,” Sherlock pressed, glancing to the bin.

“No, Sherlock.” They stared at each other in silent confrontation, jaws set and eyes hard. It was a tense moment in which they willed the other to surrender. John’s expression relaxed and he finally allowed his concern to show on his face. “Sherlock…”

The detective groaned and looked away. He glared at the bin for a beat before turning to the doctor again.

John continued to display his worry for the detective, completely open and honest in a way only this man had ever seen the ex-soldier.

Sherlock sighed. “Fine.”

John nodded. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, doctor,” Sherlock replied in a subdued voice.

John gave an amused huff and opened the fridge to face the abysmal lack of food. He sighed and closed the fridge. “We’re going to have to make a trip to the shops, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stretched his legs out underneath the table and frowned. “Why don’t we just order take-away?”

“What, for the rest of our lives?”

Sherlock flashed his phone and raised an eyebrow as if to ask, _problem_?

John laughed. “Yeah, no.” He glanced at the man’s phone and added, “Call your brother, Sherlock.”

“What were the names he gave you again?”

“No. Call him and find out yourself.”

Sherlock played with his phone sulkily, flicking the corner to make it spin on the tabletop next to his rack of test tubes.

John ran the tap to fill the kettle; it was the only sound in the kitchen for a long moment.

“When was the last time you saw a barber?”

“Nice try, Sherlock. Phone your brother.”

“No, really, your hair’s gone all poofy.”

John rolled his eyes and turned around to face the other man to find him staring intently at his hair. “Yes, it has. I’ve been cutting it myself when it gets in my eyes – but I haven’t paid to have it done for some time.”

“Why not?”

“With what money, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned. He shrugged and said, “Have Mycroft pay.”

Smirking, John turned around again and set the kettle on the stove. “Speaking of your brother, you should call him.”

“I’ll cut it for you.”

“Are you even listening?”

“Are _you_?”

Sighing, John sat at the table and looked to Sherlock expectantly. It took the detective a second to realise he was conceding and not trying to stare him into phoning his brother. Sherlock jumped out of his seat and tackled the stairs, returning with a bath towel, a black pocket comb, and the electric razor. He dug in a kitchen drawer for the scissors and turned to John with bright eyes, draping the towel about his shoulders carefully, tucking it in his collar.

Sherlock ran his hand through John’s hair and hesitated.

“Just a little off the top, boss,” John teased lightly, glancing up at the detective.

Sherlock smiled and began to comb John’s hair through, following the teeth of the comb with his fingers. He lifted some with the comb and pulled up until he had almost twenty centimetres, snipping them off against the face of the comb. Both men were silent as the blonde strands fell to land on the olive bath towel.

After the moment stretched on a beat too long, John asked cautiously, “You didn’t bodge up already, did you?”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly.” He continued quickly, keeping his fascination of such a simple act to himself. When the kettle began to whistle, he reached back and flicked the stove off without looking away from John. He crouched and tilted his head, working intently to keep the length uniform, paying mind to the man’s ears, ensuring his hair no longer hid them from view.

In the meantime, John had closed his eyes at the feel of the detective’s slender fingers and his careful ministrations with the comb. He blinked his eyes open when Sherlock suddenly kneeled in front of him, resting his middle against John’s knees as he measured and cut his fringe, brushing it to the side as he was used to seeing John do when he woke up, or in times of frustration or worry. John smiled and Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to meet his. The detective flashed a quick grin before standing to his full height again. He took up the electric and began working on his sideburns and the base of his skull with the comb serving as a guard. He guided John in tilting his head to the side and forward with light nudges, remaining quiet and studious. When the razor finally stopped buzzing, Sherlock made a pleased noise. He gathered the towel from John’s shoulders carefully and bundled it up.

“You look sharp.” Sherlock smirked. “Go wash up and I’ll clean the mess.”

John ran his hand through his shorter hair and smiled. When he reached the loo again he didn’t hesitate to look in the mirror, focused solely on his hair. Sherlock had done an even job of it, and he was beginning to look more like himself. He rinsed off hurriedly and returned to the detective to find him immersed in his chemicals again. There were two mugs sitting on the table, filled with what John hoped was tea. “Is this safe?” He prodded one as Sherlock swirled a beaker filled with a clear fluid.

“I don’t prepare tea _that_ poorly…”

Smiling, John replied, “No, I meant, it isn’t a container of anti-freeze or arsenic? Remember that time you had diluted sulphur in my mug—”

“I’d told you not to drink from that—”

“You told an empty room. I was _out,_ getting milk.”

Sherlock glanced up at John through his fringe.

Shrugging, John picked up the mug. “At any rate, you’ve promised not to poison me anymore—”

“I didn’t _poison_ you—”

“—so thanks for the tea.” He took a sip and Sherlock resumed his work, lip jutted out in what the man would deny was a pout.

There was a sharp knock at the door and John swallowed his tea harshly. His panic must have been obvious because Sherlock’s tendency to miss emotional cues didn’t prevent him from getting to his feet.

“What? Who is it? Have you noticed anyone suspicious lately?” The man’s eyes were sharp and calculating.

“What? No, I don’t think… Mrs Hudson, she shouldn’t be back until tomorrow.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “John, why would she knock?”

“Er, you’re right.” John’s panic shifted to a more logical focus. Had someone been following him lately?

The knock sounded again, accompanied by the chime of Sherlock’s mobile. John set his mug down and started for the door. He paused when Sherlock grabbed his wrist to keep him from leaving his side. John glanced at him inquisitively but the man was reading a text. He released John after a second and looked to him expectantly. Haltingly, waiting for an explanation but predictably receiving none, John continued to the door, keenly aware of Sherlock following closely behind.

When he got to the door, John’s thoughts rushed to his pistol laying uselessly in his nightstand and he frowned. He pushed Sherlock to the wall, out of the line of potential fire and opened the door, muscles coiled to duck or lunge.

A scrawny teenager dressed in dull uniform stood on the other side of the doorframe, holding a bulky box and struggling with a lift dolly stacked with seven identical boxes. He blinked when he noticed John and he smiled nervously. “Er, morning, sir. Express delivery. I’m looking for a Dr John Watson.”

“That would be me,” John answered guardedly.

“Oh, right. Great. Er, if I could just get your signature here,” he produced an electronic pad and offered it expectantly.

“I didn’t order anything.”

“No? This is a scheduled delivery, to a Dr John Watson of 221B. It’s already paid for, sir, and if I don’t make the delivery my superior will have my head. Please, if I could just get your signature…”

“Sign, John,” Sherlock murmured, leaning casually against the wall of the hallway.

Puzzled, John numbly signed to the joy of the delivery man.

“Thank you, sir. Will you need help with these?”

“No, I should be fine,” John answered dazedly as he was handed the first box followed by the others in rapid succession. John handed off each to Sherlock who in turn stacked them against the wall. When the lift dolly was bare the scrawny delivery man nodded to John, and by the time he had returned to his truck, Sherlock had already begun tearing into the boxes.

John shut and locked the door before turning to the muttering detective. “What is it?”

“Mostly treats. Does Mycroft think I live off sweets?”

“What?”

Sherlock frowned and showed John a package of dark chocolate.

“I thought you liked dark chocolate?”

“I do…”

John smiled when Sherlock handed him a box of Maltesers, his favourite. He popped a few in his mouth and watched as Sherlock cut into the second box.

“Ah, bread and noodles.” He opened the third to reveal canned goods.

“This is all from your brother, then?” John rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. He’d only accepted help from Mycroft a few times; John’s meagre savings had allowed him to purchase his own groceries and necessities but no more than the basics. He hadn’t had sweets or fresh fruit in some time, which proved to be the contents of box number four.

“Yes. He said I need to be nice and prepare dinner for you,” Sherlock muttered, glancing uninterestedly at the vegetables in box five. He opened six and seven to reveal juices and soft drinks in the former and biscuits, Nutella and other pantry items in the latter. The final box contained a cooler. Sherlock opened it and hummed at the wrapped cuts of beef and chicken under several ice packs. There was a small slip of paper taped to the topmost ice pack which read: Get off that ankle, Sherlock.

“He didn’t send milk,” Sherlock said, glancing up at John with a disapproving frown.

John laughed. “Really, Sherlock? Look at all this – I don’t think we have room to be ungrateful.”

Sherlock shrugged and picked up the first box, the one filled with treats, and hurried back upstairs.

John rolled his eyes and gathered up the cooler to put the meat away before it could spoil; if it were up to Sherlock, it would remain in the hallway until stray dogs began to gather on their stoop. “Sherlock, call your brother and thank him,” John called up the stairs. He fished his own phone out of his pocket as he navigated the stairs: **Thank you, Mycroft. JW**

After a pleasing meal of lemon chicken with penne pasta – prepared by Sherlock, John watched from his seat on the sofa as the detective traced the spines of the books lining the bookcase with his finger. It had been ten minutes since he ended his call with Mycroft and five minutes since he had started this quiet ritual and John was hesitant to interrupt him. He’d noticed the man doing a lot of things like this – playing with the squeaky tap in the kitchen; pressing his fingertips to the panes of glass of the window as he stared out to the street; dragging his hands along the wallpaper; and where he had once tended to avoid them, Sherlock now made an effort to step on all the noisy floorboards.

When he was finally satisfied, the detective turned around to blink at John. He fell on the sofa with all the grace of a puppet whose strings had been cut and squirmed up to lay his head on John’s lap.

John dropped his hand to brush back Sherlock’s fringe. He smiled at the detective. “So, tell me again, your adventures while we were apart.”

“‘Adventures’?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and smirked.

“Mycroft’s words.”

“Ah.” Sherlock let his eyes slide to focus on the table. He took a deep breath. “Well, as I’d said… The first day was the hardest, walking away from everything, from you…” He frowned. “I knew you were…” he paused and struggled to find the right words, “…important, irreplaceable, but I didn’t realise how much I…” His eyes flicked to John’s and his frown deepened. “It hurt.”

John frowned and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, rubbing his thumb along his cheekbone. Sherlock reached up to place his hand over John’s, pressing the man’s hand to his face, eyes slipping shut.

“It was only made worse by the reports I received from the Network immediately after,” Sherlock continued in a soft voice. “They told me…told me you… _screamed_ , and that it was like nothing they’d ever heard. Told me you fought against them. Told me you searched for me.” Sherlock opened his eyes again – they were glassy. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, John,” he whispered.

John silently bent forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. He closed his eyes when Sherlock ran his fingers through the short hair behind his ear. John only sat up again when Sherlock’s hand slipped away.

“So everyone there that day…?”

“Yes, they were all in the Network. I felt, that if this truly had to be done, I wanted you surrounded by people I trusted.”

“The entire thing was staged? How many people knew?”

“Aside from them? Just Molly. She assisted me – I needed a way to effectively fool you; I knew you would check for a pulse, knew you’d try to…help.”

“Molly was the only one? What about your brother?”

“Much to his…frustration, he found out I was alive a couple months after the fact.”

John blinked. “How did you manage that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I was rather occupied; otherwise I would have paid him a visit.”

John laughed. “Alright, then. How many in the Network knew? I took their help quite often, you know. They’re better actors than even Mycroft; they gave no clues.”

“Oh, no, the majority present that day stayed close to me, to assist when I needed it. Odds are, if you got the impression their emotions over my ‘death’ were legitimate, it’s because they were; many didn’t know better.”

John hummed. “So, then, you had those that knew tail me?” He’d caught people slyly following him on several occasions but he’d had practise ignoring Sherlock shadowing him, and as they hadn’t made any violent gestures, he’d left them to their business.

“…No,” Sherlock frowned. “I told them specifically to leave you be unless you sought them out. If you felt hunted, it was either the protective efforts of my brother or the work of Moriarty’s followers.”

“It wasn’t _you_ ,” John urged with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock glanced away. “No. By the third week after the trick…I couldn’t stand to watch you _mourn_ me any longer. I couldn’t follow you to the graveyard any longer. I didn’t realise…” He clenched his fist and looked out to the middle ground vacantly.

“Sherlock,” John cleared his throat, “you must surely know how much you mean to me…?”

The detective closed his eyes and reached blindly for John’s hand. He continued after they’d laced fingers: “I distanced myself from you, submerged myself in the effort to destroy all that Moriarty left behind. I knew I couldn’t continue to apathetically search for the hired assassins; I had to be sure the threat was gone. I left the shelter of St Bart’s and began legwork.” He sighed when John ran a soothing hand across his sternum. “I first engaged the three men Moriarty had poised to strike on that day. I managed to _gift-wrap_ two of them, unconscious and bound, leaving them for my brother. It was a risk, I knew, and Mycroft quickly began to suspect that I was wandering about in the dark, just out of his reach. The third man wasn’t as easy to handle, unfortunately, as he had a fondness for knives. It was a little messier than I would have preferred.”

“Knives?” John stilled his hand and coaxed Sherlock to look at him. “Sherlock.”

The detective’s eyes flicked away shortly after they met John’s. He hesitated a long moment, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He finally released John’s hand to lift up the hem of his shirt, revealing a jagged pair of silvery scars directly below his ribs. He flinched minutely when John ran a finger over one of them.

“Sherlock…” John’s brow was furrowed, teeth clenched in anger. To think that Sherlock had been injured in efforts to protect him, fighting against a sadist, alone. One of the scars was shorter in length and John recognised it as a stab wound, edges rough, but it was in the pattern of a sloppy ‘x,’ which implied two instances of entry. The other looked cleaner and began thick before it trailed off into a thin line that dipped toward his naval – a horizontal slice that Sherlock had wrenched away from. “What happened?”

“I wasn’t prepared,” he answered vaguely.

“Sherlock,” John returned sternly.

Sherlock’s muscles were tense and he continued in a hollow voice, “The first blade was a hunting knife, wide and serrated; it stuck, and I managed to grab his wrist.” He flinched again when John traced the wound he was talking about, the torn ‘x.’ “I struck him in the face with my elbow and he tore it free, twisting.” Sherlock grimaced. “He took a swipe at me with another: a small, thin knife with smooth edges. It caught my coat more than anything, and I was more concerned with the hunting knife. I tried to get away, but it was his flat and I didn’t know the layout. I tripped over an end table into a wall – idiot,” he growled and shook his head, “and I couldn’t see him in the dark.” Sherlock’s breathing had sped up and John smoothed back his hair in concern. “He was on top of me before I even saw him. He got me again with the hunting blade, in the same goddamn place.”

Sherlock twisted toward John, tugging down his shirt to hide his injuries. His jaw was clenched tightly. John placed his trembling left hand squarely over Sherlock’s, wrapped around his torso and splayed over the healed wounds.

“I’d never felt pain like that,” he admitted quietly. “The adrenaline was wearing off – I could feel everything, every heartbeat magnified at that spot, pumping my blood onto his floor. I wanted so desperately to be anywhere else. I was scared...” Sherlock chuckled humourlessly. “But I wasn’t afraid of dying,” he clarified, shifting his gaze to meet John’s eyes, “I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again, afraid I was losing time, afraid I wouldn’t get the chance to explain... That I would die in a small flat in Edinburgh, at the hands of a stranger and you would never know…” He glanced away again and his gaze hardened. “So I fought. We wrestled,” John winced, remembering the fleeting, frightened look Sherlock had given him the morning he’d initiated their bout of wrestling, “and I managed to avoid getting stuck again. He introduced a third knife, which had been strapped to the underside of a chair, after I knocked the second away. I gained control of the first and drove it into his shoulder – it had been a mistake, as I was aiming for his neck, but I must have severed his axillary artery, because he was only able to fight me for a couple minutes after that before he…stopped.” Sherlock looked pale, and John urged him to sit up.

“Sherlock, you did what you had to,” the ex-soldier assured him, running his hand along his back soothingly.

Sherlock nodded shakily. He took several breaths to compose himself. “It was messy.” He looked disgusted. “I’d only ever seen the aftermath of such things, but to be in the middle of it, to be guilty of it…” He refused to meet John’s stare. “I ran. I can’t remember much. He lived on the fifth storey, and I remember stumbling down the fire escape of his flat, my legs were weak. I remember the sound of traffic, the harsh light of a street lamp which I clung to. I was cold, and I had to stop to be sick. I was tired, and I knew I had to keep moving, but I had to lie down, just for a moment… I woke up in the RIE, freshly bandaged and attached to a heart monitor.” Sherlock paused when John grabbed his hand tightly. He stared at the sight of their joined hands and smiled faintly. “I always made a point to travel without identification, so I wasn’t too concerned with being found out, but I knew I had to get moving – I had to remain under the radar in the event that Moriarty’s men should stumble upon the fact that I was still breathing. I was contemplating methods of escape that wouldn’t alert the staff, restricted primarily by the sensors in the monitor and the painkillers in the IV, when Mycroft entered my room.” Sherlock grinned wryly. “He was _very_ upset.” Sherlock glanced sidelong at John, “He didn’t _hit_ me, though.”

John shrugged.

“He provided an alias for me, paid my fees and had me discharged. He took care of all the concerned questions of the doctors, cleaned up the mess at the flat, handled all the trouble like he usually does… For the remainder of that second month and the entirety of the third, he hovered over me and refused to let me stray far from his side. He said I owed my life to a young woman that had phoned for help upon discovering me bloodied in the street. He said had it not been for his limitless control with CCTV and the small army of men he had on the look-out for me – because he’d _known_ after the second present I’d left him – he’d have never have found me.” Sherlock sighed. “I felt like a captive, but there wasn’t much I could do while on the mend. As soon as he was sure I was going to stay put, he paid his first visit to you.”

John smiled. “A conflicted mess of sorrow and joy, I recall. Hiding something, I was sure, but I was afraid to assume too much. I didn’t ask him and he didn’t offer any information.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’d asked him to keep quiet, to keep you safe. While he was visiting you and investigating more links closer to home, I paid a visit to the woman who’d found me that night. Her name is Kristin, and although she was happy to see me well, she was guarded and almost _afraid_ of me. I thought it could be attributed to the fact I had been a frightening mess the first time she saw me, but I quickly discovered it was because she had been recently sexually assaulted by an unknown ‘salesman’ that had paid her a visit only a few days prior to my own visit. Her dog, Toby, wasn’t aggressive with me as he had been toward the stranger, however, and she took that as a good sign. I offered my services and she hesitantly agreed. With the help of her dog, I discovered a discarded jacket outside a nearby complex. I thought perhaps it was a mistake, that Toby had only sniffed it out due to curiosity, but he was far too excited by it. With this item in hand, Toby only required a few pauses to regain the scent before leading the way to the residence of a Mr Albert Kenneth. Approximately 1.95m, 80kg, with dark hair and eyes and a black tribal sun tattoo on his left forearm, as per Miss Kristin’s description. A crafty man, who carelessly kept photographic and _organic_ evidence,” Sherlock shuddered but did not elaborate, “of his violent hobby which also included murder – Miss Kristin had been spared the fate of many of his previous victims. I subdued him with a lot of help from Toby, who was eager for blood, as he had been chained in the yard when Kenneth had first made an appearance. It was for the best, as I was still admittedly recovering and had limited mobility. I called Mycroft for assistance – he was angry again, mind you – and I was able to return Toby to Miss Kristin along with the news that her attacker would no longer be free to harm anyone else.”

Sherlock smiled smugly and moved to lie down in John’s lap again. John welcomed him, reflecting his smile.

“A trial followed. I would have attended had Mycroft not kept me under lock and key until I could manage a sneeze without clutching my side. It wasn’t until the middle of the next month that he allowed me to roam about, and then it was only to see you one last time before we truly started work on Moriarty’s ring. Mycroft allowed me one day. Only one… I shadowed you, and I’m afraid I wasn’t too subtle about it. More than once I had to duck behind passerby and into alleys because you were suspicious, glancing over your shoulder.”

John tugged none-too-gently on Sherlock’s tangle of curls and Sherlock batted at his hand.

“That day, you quit as the GP. I was worried that without a routine, a distraction, you…” He cleared his throat and grasped at John’s hand, pulling it down to the hollow of his neck. “I suppose I was a bit premature in those regards. I was also worried that money would become an issue, but before I could even voice my concerns, Mycroft assured me he’d handle it.”

“He did,” John replied, “much to my embarrassment. I knew it was reckless to quit the job, but habitually failing to show up because I was dull with depression wasn’t fair to the patients or the staff.”

Sherlock frowned. “I had Mycroft keep an eye on you, and I know he had a few men assigned as your guard. If I recall correctly, they intercepted four attempts on your life. It could have been more, but by the second attempt, I had been straining at the tight lead Mycroft had me on in anxiety to rush to your aid. He assured me everything was fine and refused to report on you unless it was necessary. I worked completely isolated from you for two months, worried that each step forward made by me, each enemy disposed of, meant another chip stacked against you. I worked as quickly as I could, hoping to return to you. I rushed from target to target, hunted endlessly, read clues with the assistance of my brother. In times when I had no more available moves left to me, I took up the occasional case troubling the local authorities; my _need_ to accomplish something meaningful left me frenzied and Mycroft had to have me physically tracked down and sedated more than once.” Sherlock gave an irritated huff and John squeezed his hand. “If he’d had his way, I’d have been kept in a small box for safe-keeping until one of us died of old age. But he understood how important this was, and he always allowed me to pick up where I’d left off. I was growing weary, however. Moriarty’s influence was…impressive. I couldn’t entertain thoughts of failure, though. And then,” Sherlock couldn’t fight a small smile, “on the second night of a dreadfully tedious stakeout, you text me. You’d bought me strawberry jam.” Sherlock laughed and looked up to John. He glanced away again as a blush stole over his cheeks. “I couldn’t concentrate at all that night – almost missed my chance to grab the target.” Sherlock failed to school his features into anything other than happiness. “Mycroft teased me of course, bought me some of the same jam.” Sherlock submitted to a brief fit of coughing, throat dry from talking and John slipped free to fetch him a glass of water.

“That’s enough story time for now,” he said gently, lifting the detective’s shirt a bit to frown at the pale scars. He refrained from touching again, taking note of Sherlock’s tension in his belly. He moved on to the man’s ankle once more, rolling it gently. It was healing up fantastically, though John still planned to ice it a bit more.

Sherlock allowed himself to be scrutinised, sipping at his water.

“It’s a bit chilly,” John commented without much thought as he stood.

Sherlock straightened immediately. “Shall I start a fire?”

John laughed. “I didn’t mean you had to do anything.” Sherlock looked concerned and John smiled. “Maybe just a blanket, then? The knit one on the bed. To share?”

Sherlock eagerly sprang up from the sofa, leaping over the pile of books he’d retrieved from his room earlier. Just as he cleared it, there was a knock at the door. John chuckled and made his way down the stairs. “Go easy on that ankle, will you?”

“You’ll nurse me back to health, won’t you, doctor?”

John rolled his eyes. He paused at the door and considered the possibility of a threat. Sherlock was out of the immediate area though, and John had never had much concern over his own safety. He opened the door to reveal Greg; his cheeks, ears and the tip of his nose were tinged red from the cold. “Evening, John. Thought I’d drop by early so we could beat the r-rush…” He trailed off, eyes wide and jaw slack.

John froze and he heard Sherlock do the same behind him on the landing. Several thoughts flooded him in rapid sequence: that he’d only had Sherlock back for a little over fifty hours; that yes, it was the second Saturday of the month and Lestrade had never been one to miss appointments, especially when they involved John and a pint; and that John had failed to develop a plan to reveal Sherlock to the currently speechless inspector.

“Er, hullo, Lestrade,” Sherlock offered weakly, wearing an unsure smile. “How are you?”

“S-Sherlock.”

John only had a second to react as Greg’s eyes rolled back into his head and his knees buckled. John rushed forward, grabbing Lestrade’s shirtfront and cradling his head as he collapsed. The ex-soldier’s right leg gave out and he was nearly dragged down with the older man, but he managed to save him from too much injury. He could hear Sherlock flying down the stairs behind him, and the detective was suddenly all over them, checking Lestrade, eyes flicking to John and his leg.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked, eyes wide and searching John’s for guidance.

“Let’s move him inside.”

Sherlock nodded and John allowed him to pull Lestrade from his arms before the ex-soldier stood and helped, locking the door on their way.

“What is he doing here?” Sherlock asked, looking over the unconscious man’s head to catch John’s eyes again.

“He’s here for pints. We go to the pub occasionally. Saturdays.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I’d forgotten, alright? I haven’t been in my right mind these past few days, Sherlock,” John bit out, struggling to loosen Lestrade’s tie as they manoeuvred him up the stairs. As soon as the knot was hanging well below his collar, John deftly undid the first few buttons of the man’s shirt. “You’ll forgive me if I’ve forgotten an appointment.”

There was a weighted silence as Sherlock surely thought about the self-destructive activity with which John had been occupied only a couple days prior. “Well when did that start?”

“Maybe eight months ago?”

“So you expect me to have noticed eight random—”

“They weren’t _random,_ Sherlock, they were scheduled! And when _don’t_ you notice _anything_?”

“Hey, don’t yell at _me._ I’m not the one you’re upset with.” They struggled to settle Lestrade on the floor, lifting his legs to rest against the armrest of the sofa.

John slapped the downed man lightly, hoping to get a response. “Tell me, then, Sherlock, with whom am I upset?”

“Yourself, of course.”

John frowned and looked at Sherlock over his shoulder, hand idle over Lestrade’s cheek. Sherlock stared back, unmoved. “You’re a right bastard, Sherlock.”

“For speaking the truth?”

“Why didn’t you notice him coming up to the door?” John deflected. “You noticed Mycroft easily enough.”

“Well…” Sherlock rubbed at the nape of his neck in an unconscious display of nerves. “He walks quietly, these days. Mycroft, you know, has his umbrella, and—”

“You were too busy thinking about _cuddling_ ,” John teased. Colour rushed to Sherlock’s cheeks and John grinned broadly.

He wasn’t grinning for long though, because Sherlock suddenly picked up one of the discarded pillows and hit him across the head with it in a childish act of frustration.

John let out a disbelieving, startled noise, snatching the pillow up to return the act in kind. “Prat.”

“…Is this real,” Lestrade questioned in a weak voice. He stared at them with bleary eyes, frown creasing his brow. “I’ve finally gone mad,” he murmured more to himself than the two startled men eyeing him uncertainly.

“Greg,” John dropped the pillow and Sherlock snapped it out of the air by reflex before it could hit the ground. They both stared at the prone man in silence.

“Sherlock, go fetch some water,” John ordered. The detective rushed to do what he was told, dropping the pillow. “No! Wait! The juice in the fridge.”

Lestrade tried to sit up to watch Sherlock go, but his breath quickly became laborious and he nearly blacked out again.

“Whoa, whoa, easy, Greg. Just take it easy, yeah?” He helped the man lie back down. “Do you feel ill? No? Double vision? No? Alright, good. Just stay there a moment.” He brushed past Sherlock on his way to the kitchen to wet a towel for Lestrade’s brow; Sherlock was on his way back with a tall glass of fruit juice.

When John returned, it was to find Sherlock timidly helping Lestrade drink and Lestrade staring at Sherlock with a dazed expression, eyes flicking across his features.

John kneeled beside them and ran the cool towel across Lestrade’s forehead, his cheeks and neck. “Alright, then, Greg?”

Greg closed his eyes for a moment at the cool contact before looking to John. His eyes quickly shifted back to Sherlock.

John elbowed Sherlock sharply and the man flinched. “Say something, Sherlock.” When the detective looked at him with a lost expression John rolled his eyes. “When I first saw you again, I thought I was hallucinating.”

“Oh… Oh!” Sherlock looked back to Lestrade. “So, er, Lestrade, I’m not dead. Well, I mean, obviously. What I really mean, well, it was just an intricate trick, see?” When Lestrade glared at him over the rim of his glass Sherlock leaned back on his heels. “For your safety, of course! I wasn’t playing a game, Greg!”

At the use of his first name, the man settled a bit and finished his juice without interruption. John continued to tend to him.

“Your safety,” Sherlock continued, “And John’s, and Mrs Hudson’s, and Molly’s, and Angelo’s, and Mycroft’s – though I’m sure he’d have been a difficult target – and maybe even Donovan’s and Anderson’s and the safety of all those at the Yard who’d even given me a bit of attention, and perhaps those I’d helped in cases and their relations and more because John here taught me to care about them and...” He cleared his throat at the realisation that he was rambling. “See, Moriarty planned to destroy me if I didn’t destroy myself. He had it set flawlessly regardless of the outcome, which is why he was so quick to turn his gun on himself, though I know you weren’t able to retrieve his body. Curious, that. I haven’t discovered anything myself, haven’t heard much of anything, but for the both of us to disappear…” Sherlock nearly stood up to begin pacing, drawn away by his thoughts.

John grabbed him by his collar without looking away from Lestrade. “Focus, Sherlock, stay here.”

Sherlock settled again and looked at Lestrade.

John checked the man’s pulse, eyes on his watch as he counted the steady beats. A little accelerated, but definitely not weak. “Greg, can you follow my finger?” John lifted his pointer and watched the man’s eyes for lack of fluidity or control. “Great, you’re doing great, Greg.” He set the towel aside and put the empty glass on the table. “When you’re ready, we’ll try sitting up.”

“You were right,” he rumbled numbly. “The entire time, and I refused to believe.” He looked to John apologetically.

“Ah, well, yes, John was a hard one to deceive,” Sherlock said with a wry smile. “Had to start travelling by disguise, but even then, he’d catch me by surprise and I was sure he _knew._ ”

John straightened, looking to Sherlock sharply. “The old man on the train…”

Sherlock chuckled, and confirmed quietly, “Yes.”

Brows furrowing, John asked, “And the woman in the wheelchair outside the bookshop?”

“That disguise I’m actually quite proud of,” Sherlock admitted with a smile.

Laughing, John shook his head. “You’re a bastard, Sherlock.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I think I’m ready now,” Lestrade cut in. He grinned as they both rushed to help him with gentle hands.

John hovered over him, eyes trained on the inspector’s before he moved to check his pulse again. “Alright, looks good. Let me know if you feel light-headed or ill, Greg. In a few minutes we’ll try some more juice.”

“Could we get take-away,” Sherlock asked hopefully.

John caught Lestrade’s smile at such a domestic request coming from Sherlock and he nodded. “Yeah, sounds like a great idea. We’ll have a night in this month, eh, Greg?”

Lestrade chuckled and nodded. “Sure, sounds good…”


End file.
